


Secretly, Santa

by recoveringrabbit



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Hallmark Movie AU, Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28511766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recoveringrabbit/pseuds/recoveringrabbit
Summary: Jemma loves her job as Events Coordinator at Pine Tree Lodge and has every confidence of making it through her probationary period with flying colours—until, that is, Mr. Coulson informs her that they'd really like to see her making more of an effort to be a team player. His suggestion? Make the most of the Lodge's month-long Secret Santa event. Never one to back down from a challenge, Jemma determines to rise to the occasion, even when—especially when—her giftee turns out to be the maintenance manager, Leopold Fitz, who doesn't like her and hates Secret Santa even more. She can handle this. And the huge Christmas Eve party she only learned about three weeks before the date, which also requires working with Fitz. And the fact that, even if Fitz hates her, she may or may not hate him...
Relationships: Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Comments: 25
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [accio-the-force (XOLove47)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XOLove47/gifts).



> Dear accio-the-force:  
> Happy Christmas! This story, as literally every Secret Santa I've ever written, rather got away from me—so we may be enjoying a Christmas story way into March, who can say? Regardless, I hope you enjoy the disgusting amounts of Hallmark/Christmas movie references I am stuffing into this sucker, and I promise the rest will come as quickly as I can make it!

_Sleigh bells ring - are you listening?_

_In the lane snow is glistening_

_A beautiful sight! We’re happy tonight_

_Walking in a winter wonderland! **[i]**_

Snow was everywhere: to begin with. Beginning as light, down-feather flakes drifting quietly past the window on Thanksgiving night, by the next morning it had plumped pillows all over Pine Falls, Vermont, and looked likely to tuck the mountains up in king-sized duvets for the foreseeable future. Which—while annoying for those who had avoided putting chains on their tires and exhausting for the snowplow crews—meant only good things for Pine Falls Lodge, the region’s best base for a vacation featuring its many excellent ski trails and the cheeriest ho-ho-hotel for the ho-ho-holidays.[ii]From the postage-stamp Events office off the main lobby, Jemma watched the drifts pile higher and wondered with not a little concern if she should increase or decrease the number of canapés she had ordered for the Snowballs Mixer that evening.

“Increase,” said the concierge, Deke, who had worked at the Lodge for six years and would know. “It’s the first event of the holiday season—just when people give themselves permission to indulge. Plus, think of the children.”

“It’s an over-21 mixer, Deke,” she said, to which he flapped his hand airily.

“I mean Ashley’s nephews that are staying with her while their mom is in the hospital. She takes home the leftovers.”

While ordering extra food to benefit hotel employees was an unethical use of resources, Deke’s opinion agreed with her own, so Jemma jotted down _add 100 cheese and chutney crackers_ and tapped her pen against her pad. “I didn’t know that about Ashley’s nephews. Did that happen over the weekend?”

Deke blinked his big, ice-blue eyes at her. “Noooo. It’s been, like three months. How did you not know about it? Don’t you talk to her, like, every day?”

With an inward squirm, Jemma admitted that she did speak to the head of catering fairly often. “But we’re rather business-like,” she added. “Not a great deal of small talk.”

“Really?” said Deke. “She’s been talking people’s ear off about it. Weird. Anyway: Snowball Mixer is in the—”

“Holly Room, from eight. There will also be—”

“Hot toddies.” Deke made a note to himself. “And you’re expecting the tables to be set up for that law firm’s Christmas party at...four?”

She nodded. “If you would be able to direct them and make sure they have everything they need, I’d appreciate it. I’m meant to be meeting with Mr. Coulson at that time.”

“Oooooh, meeting the big boss.” Deke leaned forward on his elbows across the counter, pitching his voice to be ready for a secret. “Why? Has he called you in to handle the employee party? Miss Jeffers could never manage to pry it out of his hands.”

“No.” Jemma frowned. “At least, I don’t know, he hasn’t told me. Just sent a meeting request to my email. There’s an employee party? When?”

Shrugging, Deke straightened, clearly disappointed at not getting the hot gos. “There’ll be an email about it pretty soon. It’s probably been in the works for months.”

“Any good holiday party would be by now, the weekend after Thanksgiving.”

Deke allowed the point. “Cool. I’ll be sure to head off anyone looking for you around four. Hey, why don’t you ask Fitz to take care of the table guys? That’s kind of his job.”

“Oh. I...well.”

As always happened when the maintenance manager came up, Jemma felt her hands go colder than normal and her shoulders draw up towards her ears. Ridiculous, she told herself firmly, to be so anxious at the mere mention of a perfectly ordinary man who put his bad-tempered boots on one at a time, and yet. “I don’t want to bother him,” she said, pleased with how nonchalant her voice sounded. “He’s so busy all the time; it’s must easier to ask you.”

“Hmm,” said Deke. Then, looking at his watch, he jumped and whirled away from her alcove. “Gotta get to the desk. See you later, Jemma.”

He darted away, tugging his jacket into position as he went, and Jemma turned with satisfaction to her own schedule for the day: A meeting at ten with the Peabody-Waits wedding, a trip to the florist down the mountain after lunch, and then this mysterious meeting with Coulson. Jemma paused over the space in her diary thoughtfully. Curious, indeed, that he didn’t say what he wanted to discuss. How could she adequately prepare without knowing the topic of conversation? They were both busy people; she’d hate to waste either of their time. Perhaps she had missed something in the meeting request.

After ascertaining that yes, the meeting request was as bare-bones as she’d thought, she returned her screen to the email to find a new message waiting in her inbox: YOU’D BETTER WATCH OUT, the subject line demanded. “What rubbish,” she said aloud, deleting it without looking at the sender. One would think the employees at this lodge had better things to do than send juvenile emails during working hours. She certainly had _more_ than enough to keep her busy. And, with that, she cheerily got down to doing it.

* * *

Seven hours later, she blew back into the Lodge, steaming faintly as the snow in her hair melted in the face of her frustration. “Whoa,” said Deke as she passed the front desk, “traffic bad?”

“Horrific,” she tossed over her shoulder, “and now I’m nearly late for Mr. Coulson, _and_ the florist wants to set up for the Peabody wedding before the archway will arrive, which is clearly unacceptable. Haven’t time to chat, Deke, sorry.”

In fact she barely had enough time to bundle her coat and hat into her office and grab her diary before catching the lift to Mr. Coulson’s office. Fortunately, the ride up gave her a minute to catch her breath. Until, that is, the doors opened on the third floor to reveal a plaid-shirted, work-booted figure, who looked back at her with as much dismay as—she was sure—she felt upon seeing him.

“Six please,” said Fitz, stepping inside and staring straight ahead.

Jemma pushed the _six_ button without speaking. Rather than copy him, she stared at the carpet. The door slid closed. A floor passed in silence.

“Um,” said Fitz. “One of my guys pulled out the karaoke machine to clean it before the thing tomorrow and it looks like rats have chewed the wires. So. You’re going to have to find another one somewhere.”

“Excuse me, _what_ chewed the wires?”

“Rats,” he said, briefly, “or, I guess, mice. Probably rats.”

“Why was the karaoke machine—” No. Never mind. Anything she could think to say would turn into some very unprofessional behavior, so best not to say anything. Pursing her lips together, she pulled her phone from her cardigan pocket and clicked on the notification, just to have something else to concentrate on.

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING, she read, and groaned inwardly; of course it would be an ad. Well, Fitz didn’t need to know that. She read on:

> _Happy Ho-ho-holidays, valued member of the Pine Falls Lodge Family!_
> 
> _Well, it’s that time of year again – the time I know I look forward to more than any other. I love when the Lodge is surrounded by snow and filled with good cheer. This is the time that we really pull together and pull it out, for our guests and for each other. More than that, though, it’s the time we all stop to reflect on the things that make life worth living. For me, that’s you._
> 
> _So I am pleased to announce, yet again: Pine Falls Lodge’s Annual Secret Santa Month!_

“What,” Jemma said under her breath. Fortunately, at that moment the doors opened to let Fitz out, and she could read the rest of the message without worrying about being overheard.

> _Those of you who have been here for previous holidays can skip to the good stuff at the end, but for those of you who are new, read on for an explanation:_
> 
> _Each and every one of the Lodge’s seventy-five employees, from myself down to William the weekend busboy, has been randomly assigned a giftee. In addition to the traditional gift at the end-of-year party (details to be forthcoming, but block out Christmas Eve Eve), you should secretly shower your giftee with holiday cheer. How you do this is up to you, but remember: we strive for personal, individualized care in everything we do here at Pine Falls Lodge._
> 
> _Ready to learn who you’ll be giving to this year? Scroll down....._

But Jemma, arriving at the tenth floor, didn’t have time to scroll down, nor did she have the mental energy to process what she had just read. Instead, she shoved her phone back in her cardigan and hurried down the corridor to the Director’s Suite, where Mr. Coulson had his office.

He met her at the door, his normally genial smile broader than normal. “Miss Simmons, excellent to see you. It’s 4:02, I was beginning to get worried.”

“Sorry, sir,” she said, “my prior meeting was down the mountain and went long.”

“That’s fine.” He gestured her in. “We’ve got all the time we need. I just wanted to have a little chat with you about some things.”

Following him to his desk where she perched at the edge of one of the chairs in front, Jemma refused his offer of a cup of coffee and clutched her diary in white-knuckled hands. “What kind of things, Mr. Coulson? I’ve just heard about the karaoke machine, but I’m confident we can dig up another one by tomorrow.”

“What about the karaoke machine?” Mr. Coulson shook his head. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll take care of it. You haven’t let anything slip through the cracks as long as you’ve been working here.”

Slightly relieved, Jemma willed the tension in her spine to relax a few newtons. “Thank you, sir. I do my best.”

“Yes.” Mr. Coulson sat in his own chair, staring pensively out the window. “What’s it been since you started, Jemma, five months?”

“About that, sir, but it feels like much longer!”[iii]

She didn’t realize what she had said until Mr. Coulson laughed softly, making her face flame. “That is,” she stammered, “I’ve been enjoying myself so much, and I feel so comfortable in the position—”

“I know what you mean,” said Mr. Coulson, “and that’s great. It’s gone kind of fast for me, too. I can’t believe it’s already time for your probationary check-in.”

With that, Jemma relaxed. She, too, had forgotten that she was meant to have a check-in about a month before the end of her probationary period, the better to empower her to make any adjustments (and, she knew full well, to cover management’s posteriors if they wished to fire her) before the end of the six-month trial period. A review, though a bit nerve-wracking, had no fear for such a conscientious and thorough employee as Jemma knew herself to be, and she had even managed to laugh at a few of Mr. Coulson’s dad jokes by the time they drew to the end.

“In summary,” said Mr. Coulson, “I know it couldn’t have been easy for you to come in after Miss Jeffers and her thirty years of experience, step into all her plans and pull them off so well. Of course we’ll have to see what you’re like with events you plan yourself from start to finish. You haven’t planned a big party yet, right?”

“That’s true, sir.”

“Obviously we’ll need to make sure you can do that. But I don’t have any complaints about your work ethic; I’m sure you’ll succeed. However—”

_Thud_. The handful of nuts she had eaten in lieu of lunch turned to a stone in her stomach.

“However,” said Mr. Coulson again, turning over the last page of her review and fixing her with a sympathetic eye, “I do think you have some room for development on a personal front. I don’t mean with the clients; they’ve all been very complimentary about your professionalism and customer service.”

“Pardon me, sir,” she managed to say, “but then I don’t see—”

“I’m talking about the staff. I’ve been watching, Jemma, and I’ve spoken with people you work with regularly, and I think it’s pretty clear that you’ve been keeping yourself to yourself. Which is perfectly within your rights, but we really need team players. We’ve got so many people working here on so many shifts; it can be easy to get lost in a crowd. It’s one of our priorities as a company that our staff feel like part of a family, that each individual matters to each other. After all, at Pine Falls Lodge—”

“—it’s always friends and family season,” she said aloud with him, quoting the Lodge’s slogan.

“Exactly!” Coulson stood from his chair and came around the front of the desk, leaning casually against the edge. “The thing is, no matter how good a person is at her job, it’s about the connection. Particularly in this business. That’s what Miss Jeffers was so good at, and what we’re missing from you right now. We need to know that you, Jemma, care about us, individually—not the Lodge in theory. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

_No matter how good a person is at her job._ The stone became a mountain to rival any of the ones around her. Oh, yes, she understood what he was saying: start making friends, or be out of work. But goodness knows it wasn’t as though she didn’t _try_ to be friendly; she smiled at people and ate lunch in the common break room at least twice a week. She had never liked people prying into her business and attempted to show others the same courtesy. What more did Mr. Coulson want? Trying to keep the wobbliness out of her voice, she asked, “How would one show that?”

“Well. Secret Santa, for example, would be a great opportunity. That’s an easy place to start, don’t you think? Just one person. I think you could manage that in between doing the rest of your job up to your usual standard.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She didn’t see anything else she could say.

“That’s right.” Point made, Mr. Coulson stood from his desk, fatherly friendliness subsumed in hotel manager. “I have every confidence we’ll come back here at the beginning of the year and end the probationary period easily. But that’s what these check-ins are for, right? What good would it be if you didn’t have anything to work on?”

She made a noise she hoped signified agreement and got out of there somehow, hopefully without being rude. Though he probably already thought she was, anyway, so it might not matter. Lost in thought, she made her way to the elevator and pressed the call button, only for the doors to slide open to reveal, once again, the last person she wanted to see.

“Lobby, please,” she said to Fitz, stalking into the elevator and taking her phone from her pocket.

He must have pressed the button, because the doors slid closed and they began their descent. Jemma opened her phone, closed out the Secret Santa email—she could _not_ with that at this moment—and went to her messaging app to find the conversation with her friend Daisy.

> _Hey_ , she began typing, _may I come_

“You know,” said Fitz. “It’s my job to make sure tables get set up and chairs put out. Literally, set-up is part of my job. You should ask me to make sure it gets done, instead of Deke.”

The thing was, she knew that. Of course she knew that. At any other event coordination job, she would have gone straight to the maintenance manager and not given a second thought to the concierge. That had been her strategy here, at the beginning. But when every request she made of him felt like the last thing he wanted to do, when he refused to answer her questions in words longer than two syllables, when he utterly refused to do more than the bare minimum of work—well, she had her pride, too, and she refused to grovel for what ought to be hers by right. So she just stopped. She didn’t have to put up with his nonsense. “Perhaps,” she said, feeling the sharp edges of each syllable as they left her mouth, “had I any confidence they would be done the way I wanted them—”

“Is this still about those chandeliers? Because that was four months ago, I’m not going to—”

“It’s about the chandeliers and the cabanas and the—”

“Miss Jeffers never—”

“Well, Miss Jeffers—”

But the door _binged_ , indicating a stop at the fifth floor, and they managed to snap off the argument before the doors opened to let in a trio of skiers bedecked in furry hats and sleek parkas. “No Tension In Front of Guests” had been pounded into them from day one. Instead, they retreated to separate corners of the elevator, intentionally not looking at each other until Fitz got out on floor three. Jemma sighed and unlocked her phone.

> _Hey,_ she started again, deleting what she had written before. _I need to come over after work tonight. It’s been one of those days._

* * *

Daisy pulled the mugs of hot cocoa across the island towards her, ducking below the counter’s edge and out of Jemma’s sightline to rummage in a cupboard. “I can’t _believe_ he said that in this, the Year of Our Lord 20-anything. It’s like, what did they used to write on report cards—‘doesn’t play nicely with others’?”

“I don’t know,” said Jemma glumly over the hollow clangs of moving pots and pans, “they didn’t write that sort of thing on my reports.”

“They didn’t?” Daisy popped back up again, a bottle of Baileys in hand. Unscrewing the lid, she threw a wink at Jemma and started glugging the liqueur into the cocoa. “Don’t tell Daniel,” she said, “he’s a Boy Scout and doesn’t approve of mixing alcohol with something so wholesome.”

“Is he anti-Irish coffee too?”

“Coffee isn’t wholesome. It’ll stunt your growth, you know.” Jemma raised an eyebrow. Daisy laughed. “Yeah, I know, he could out-fuddy-dud Captain America. It’s part of his charm.”

“I’ll drink his share, then,” said Jemma, snagging a mug and taking a long pull. Though much sweeter than her normal tastes, it exactly hit the spot after the day she had. Clutching the mug to her chest, she perched her elbows on the counter and let the sweet chocolate air steam her face. “I didn’t know what to say. I think I’m perfectly amiable with my colleagues, as a rule.” Certain awful maintenance managers aside. “Perhaps I don’t small talk much with anyone besides Deke, but that doesn’t indicate that I don’t respect or value them.”

“Definitely not.” Daisy took a sip of her own cocoa and did a happy shoulder shimmy. “But you have to admit this has happened to you before.”

“Never.”

“Okayyy, your boss has never told you to make friends or you’re going to be fired, but remember those girls at the end of the hall sophomore year who were convinced you were the world’s biggest snob?”

“I smiled at them every time we saw each other on campus,” Jemma said hotly.

“Yeah, and they thought it was condescending! Something about your”—Daisy gestured vaguely—“face, Jemma. And you’re private anyway, and yeah, I can see how people would think you don’t like them. I’m not saying—I’m _not saying_ they’re right. But yeah.”

Jemma returned to her Baileys cocoa, frowning. Daisy might, in the way of all good college roommates, have a point. Group projects had often been a problem for her, and somehow she never managed to earn the favors that other event coordinators seemed to collect like seashells. Still, she knew herself to feel generally positive towards most people and resented being told otherwise. “Well,” she said, shaking her hair over her shoulders, “I can hardly do anything about my face.”

“So you’ll have to do something about your...attitude?” Daisy laughed, probably at the expression Jemma could feel screwing up her face. “Whatever. I love you exactly the way you are.”

“Thank you,” Jemma said, with dignity, then slumped as she recalled the end of her day. “Unlike _some_ people.”

“Ohhh?” Much as Deke had earlier, Daisy leaned forward on her elbows and prepared for something juicy. This time, Jemma obliged.

“And as if that wasn’t enough, I had to ride the lift—both up and down—with _Fitz_.”

“Boo! Hiss! Boo!” chanted Daisy.

“On the way up, he told me the karaoke machine I need for the party tomorrow won’t work, so I have to spend who knows how long trying to find one. Which isn’t his fault, I suppose, but he could have been more understanding. And then on the way down—ugh!” She had to take another sip to fortify herself. “He all but scolded me for asking Deke to check on the party setup, then brought up the chandeliers _again_. At what point does one realize one is an adult and get over it?”

Daisy waved a hand. “Wait, wait, I forget—what’s the chandeliers?”

Jemma sighed and put her chin in her hand, trying to appear as though she’d rather not tell this story again. In truth, she relished the opportunity to air the grievance and enjoy Daisy’s indignation. “Remember, how I requested maintenance clean all the chandeliers in the Starbright Ballroom?”

“Oh, right right,” said Daisy. “Like, your second week on the job, right before that big party—”

“Miss Jeffers had just upped and left without a word,” Jemma nodded, “and I had all her mess on my hands—”

“And he still literally had the chandeliers on the floor when you had the people coming in to wax the parquet—”

“And acted like it was my fault they weren’t done?” Jemma sat back in her chair and took a satisfied sip. Daisy scoffed at the absent Fitz, glaring fiercely.

“The jerk,” she said, “how dare. How is it your fault that he didn’t get his act together?”

“I have never understood it myself.” Though she had tried—not in the moment, when she had been too flustered and worried to be generous, but often over the next month when the Chandelier Situation hung over their interactions both literally and metaphorically. She had asked, she thought, in plenty of time; fully aware that cleaning every one of the dangling crystals would take ages, she had put in the request a full week early and given Fitz a very clear schedule of activities so he could coordinate the cleaning at his leisure. And then—he didn’t. Or he had underestimated how long it would take, or been hungover, or _something_ , and responded to her perfectly justified frustration with equally frustrated but far less justified sharpness, and they had never been able to recover from it.

“Well.” Daisy snorted into her mug. “No wonder you don’t want to mingle with the staff, if that’s how they act. I’m kinda sorry I ever told you about this job in the first place. Not worth putting up with that kind of crap.”

“Oh, _no_.” Putting her mug down on the counter, Jemma reached out to touch Daisy’s arm. “No, don’t think that. I _love_ the job. The Lodge is a wonderful place to work and I have such fun doing it.”

Daisy raised both eyebrows. “You seem pretty stressed.”

“The stress is part of the fun!”

If possible, Daisy’s eyebrows rose further up her forehead. “I’m not sure you’re clear on the definition of ‘fun’, Jem.”

“Well, all right. It’s not that the _stress_ is fun; it’s that thriving under pressure is fun. Making all those moving parts go in tandem, making the work look effortless—making sure people can enjoy themselves for a few hours and forget their own pressures? Marvelous. I’ve never enjoyed myself more.”

“If you say so.” Daisy, still skeptical, nevertheless patted her hand. “So if you love your job, obviously you want to keep it. So how are you going to make your boss think you see yourself as part of the family?”

The question had been worrying Jemma all night, burbling around in the back of her head as she dashed around making sure the Snowball Mixer lived up to expectations while researching karaoke rentals on her phone. What more could she do that she hadn’t already done? But sitting in her friend’s kitchen at eleven pm, a mug of Baileys hot chocolate in hand, the answer seemed clear: “I’m going to murder Secret Santa.”

“Abos _lutely_ you are!” Daisy whooped. “Kill it, queen. Win those reindeer antlers or whatever kind of prize they give for this messed-up mandatory jollity.”

“Absolutely I am,” she said with a determined nod. “I’m going to give the most personal, the most individualized shower of Christmas Spirit the Pine Falls Lodge has ever seen, and then I’m going to give a gift to make people weep with how heartfelt it is!”

“Of course you are!” Daisy cheered, holding her mug in the air, “because you are a great friend and care about people, whatever your vibe gives off.”

Jemma clinked her mug against Daisy’s, just barely avoiding a splash of cocoa going over the side. “Thank you for your support. Now to come up with a plan of attack!”

“I’ll help brainstorm. So will Daniel.” Daisy straightened up and shouted to the other room for her husband, then slumped back against the island. “So, who’s your person? That’ll make a difference.”

“I don’t know, actually.” With one thing and another, she had forgotten to go back to the email. Digging her phone from her pocket, she unlocked it as Daniel entered the room, bleary-eyed from his nap on the sofa. “I may not know them; I haven’t got much to do with Housekeeping, for example, and I don’t know the overnight workers at all.”

“Worth a try,” said Daisy, holding out her hand to Daniel. “Babe, Jemma needs help with Christmas Spirit.”

“She’s great at Christmas Spirit, though,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jemma said, navigating to the email and scrolling to the bottom. “It’s not that, but I—”

Her eye fell on the name. The phone dropped from her hand, clattering across the counter and sliding Daniel’s direction. Catching it neatly, he held it out in her direction, but Jemma had buried her face in her hands and didn’t want it back.

“What is it, babe?” Daisy asked, trying to peer through Jemma’s fingers. “Not Coulson himself?”

“Worse,” groaned Jemma. “Show her, Daniel.”

She couldn’t see Daniel showing Daisy the screen, but she knew from her friend’s hysterical laughter when she had seen the name at the bottom of the email:

_Leopold Fitz, Maintenance._

* * *

Fitz. Fitz, of all people. Someone she didn’t know would be easy; someone she knew who hated her? Another thing entirely. Lying awake that night, brain buzzing, Jemma calculated the odds of receiving Fitz’s name in a totally random draw: one in 74, theoretically, though depending how they drew, perhaps lower. Or higher. She had always been good at maths, but couldn’t do that in her head without more details. Regardless, the odds were low enough that she couldn’t quite make herself feel comfortable with them. And when she remembered Coulson’s words in the meeting—“people you work closely with”—and the fact that she had met Fitz both coming and going— _well_. The whole situation became clear, didn’t it? This was obviously a test.

And if there was one thing Jemma Simmons excelled at, it was tests.

Why should the strategy change? She loved her job; she wanted to keep it; she would do whatever the situation required to please her boss and come through this with aplomb. Fitz wouldn’t know what hit him.

At about three in the morning, she sat up in bed and shot off the opening salvo.

* * *

From: secretlysanta@smail.com

To: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com

Dear Fitz,

What would you like for Christmas?

Secretly,

Santa

* * *

[i] _One Royal Holiday_ , 2020. And probably two or three more every year since Countdown to Christmas started.

[ii] Pine Tree, Vermont, is the name of the town in _White Christmas_ , though it’s probably best not to imagine this lodge as that one.

[iii] I wish I could take credit for this joke, but I got it from _Window Wonderland_ , 2015.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention last time, and my gift has rightly guessed, that this is loosely based on a Hallmark Movie called "With Love, Christmas". VERY loosely. However, I couldn't resist writing a Secret Santa story FOR a Secret Santa exchange! Too perfect.

> From: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> To: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> A Starbucks gift card is fine. Or whatever coffee shop is convenient for you.

* * *

Chin in her hand, Jemma pondered the message through narrowed eyes. A Starbucks gift card or whatever coffee shop is convenient _to her_? The bare minimum of effort? No. That will not prove that she cares about the staff like her own family. “Try again, Fitz,” she muttered under her breath, pulling up the reply email.

“Hey, Jemma.”

Minimizing the window quickly, Jemma spun in her seat to find Deke leaning against the doorjamb to her office. “Good morning, Deke.”

“So, I heard the karaoke machine is done-zo. Is that true?”

“So I’m told. How did you hear about it?”

“The maids know everything.”[i] He shrugged. “So, I know a guy at Patton’s down-the-hill, do you know that place?” She shook her head. Deke continued. “It’s, like, an 80s dive bar, super sticky and super fun. They have a karaoke night every month and my guy says they can rent you the machine for pretty cheap tomorrow, if you want.”

Putting down her pen, Jemma blinked as she took in the essential information from Deke’s verbal flood. “You have a karaoke machine? Or, that is, you can get one for me?”

“Yeah,” Deke said, “that’s what I just said? Here’s his card. Tell him it’s Lemons, and he’ll take care of you.”

He slid a card across the desk toward her, patted it twice, and left her to her work.

* * *

> From: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> To: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> That seems rather impersonal, don’t you think? There’s not a great deal of individualized touch. Of course if you’d really _like_ a gift card, that’s one thing, but surely one can do better than Starbucks.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> From: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> To: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> There’s no reason to make this harder than it has to be. If you don’t know me already, this whole thing is an exercise in pretense, isn’t it?

* * *

Fitz’s second email solidified Jemma’s belief that he had set the whole thing up with Coulson. The two of them were determined to make it difficult for her, then—a task she could only assume Fitz would relish? They had clearly underestimated her ability to rise to the occasion. While the Peabody-Waits wedding precluded the intense reconnaissance necessary to drown her giftee in Holiday Spirit, she did manage to smuggle a gift card into Fitz’s mailbox without too much difficulty. A typed note accompanied the envelope:

_As this is for the nearest coffee shop not actually in the lodge, I expect it’s convenient for the both of us. However, I’ll need a new gift idea now...any suggestions?_

When this received no response, she tried again via email.

* * *

> From: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> To: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> I hope you received your little surprise—nothing much, just the tip of the iceberg really—if you’d like to be more forthcoming about anything else you might enjoy receiving?
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> From: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> To: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> I got it, yeah. Thanks. You really didn’t have to.
> 
> You can still get me a gift card. I don’t see the point of Secret Santa.

> From: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> To: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> I think it’s lovely that the Lodge takes time to (a) let its employees know they are valued (b) facilitate mutual appreciation amongst the staff (c) give us all an opportunity to known each other better. Three excellent points. If these do not suffice, Mr. Coulson would surely be able to wax eloquently about it, if you cared to ask him.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

* * *

Feeling she had dodged a bullet with her last answer, Jemma allowed herself put Secret Santa out of her mind and concentrated on her actual job. The karaoke party, thanks to Deke’s friend, had been a success. The wedding followed suit despite floral skullduggery, the archway suddenly appearing a day early without any extra pressure on her part. The second Monday in December, therefore, found Jemma strolling into her office with no small amount of spring in her step, confident in her ability to manage whatever the day might hurl her direction. She picked up the phone, already ringing as she shrugged her red coat off, cheerily: “Pine Tree Lodge Events, how may I help you?”

“Miss Simmons, good morning! Would you please come up to my office as soon as you can?”

Instantly, her mood had a foot of snow shoveled down its neck. “Yes, sir, of course. I’ll be straight up, Mr. Coulson.”

Draping her coat carefully across the back of the chair, she left her little “Out of the Office” sign on the counter and made her way to the elevators, trying not to wring her hands as she waited. It could be something perfectly normal, of course. Just because she had been called on the carpet last time, there was no reason to suspect that the same would be true now. Temporal loops only existed in science fiction. “Calm, Jemma,” she told herself as the lift doors slid open. “Calm.”

Fitz—of _course_ —stared back at her. “Wrong time of year for that,” he said, “whatever the carols say.”

She let out a slow breath and stomped into the elevator without replying, causing Fitz to shuffle to the other side of his tool-bag to give her room. The button for the tenth floor was already lit when she went to press it. “Going to the tenth floor?”

“Yup.”

The doors closed. Fitz peered up at the ceiling, fingers tapping anxiously against his denim-clad leg. She followed his gaze but saw nothing. “Is there something wrong with the light?”

“Don’t think so.”

Floors two and three passed without comment. Why, Jemma wondered, did he always seem to be going her direction when she had to make these nerve-wracking journeys? The odds were incredible. Unless— Unless it wasn’t an accident. Unless this, too, was part of the test. In which case, she couldn’t let this opportunity pass without making the most of it. “Have you been showered with Holiday Spirit?”

Fitz recoiled a little, his eyes very large in his face. “What?”

“I mean”—ugh, could she have said that any _more_ awkwardly?—“the Secret Santa thing. Have you heard from your Santa?”

“Yes.”

Jemma pursed her lips. Of all the wretched Scottish stereotypes, would it kill him to live up to ‘quick wit’ rather than ‘bad-tempered’? “I’ve done Secret Santa before but not like this,” she tried again, determined to have a pleasant conversation if it killed them both.

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“What?”

Kicking his tool-bag, Fitz put his hands on the small of his back like a pregnant lady and transferred his stare to the carpet. “Just, this whole-month thing. All the pressure. All the unspoken rules. That there’s no way to not participate. The whole thing is bonkers.”

She found _unspoken rules_ rather worrisome, but decided Fitz was probably not the best person to ask about them. “It’s nice,” she protested instead, “a good way to remember the spirit of the season when, in our business, it would be so easy to forget.”

Fitz snorted. “Retail’s worse, and they don’t do this. I’d rather forget the whole thing, honestly.”

And what could one say to that? If certain grumps wanted to pretend the whole Christmas season didn’t exist, it couldn’t be her job to talk them out of it. Even if this was part of her test, Mr. Coulson couldn’t expect her to work miracles.

Except that, about fifteen minutes later, it turned out that he did.

“What?” It came out worriedly close to a shriek; she only managed to remain in her chair by drawing on every ounce of her English reserves. “I’m sorry, Mr. Coulson, could you repeat that?”

The boss leaned back in his chair as easily as if it had been a rocker. “A holiday party with sit-down dinner for 150 people on Christmas Eve, here, fully catered, no expense spared. They know it’s late notice so they aren’t expecting much, but of course we won’t allow that to stop us from excellence.”

“Of course not, sir,” said Fitz from behind her, the utter git. He probably thought this was funny. Jemma clutched her pen in both hands.

“Why is it such late notice, sir? Most firms have had their holiday parties on the schedule for months. Honestly, they’re very lucky that we aren’t booked.”

“Something about...a PR strategy to rehabilitate the image of the son-and-heir?”[ii] Mr. Coulson shrugged. “It’s not relevant to the situation.”

“Now, well, I—” began Jemma, but Mr. Coulson cut her off.

“Except that said Son-and-Heir specifically requested we bring you into the project, Fitz. Turns out he was here for a Valentine’s Day party and the x-and-o tables you created made an impression. I’m hoping you can work with Jemma and come up with something to really wow him. Do you think you can handle that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Fitz without a trace of doubt in his voice. Whether he was confident in his ability to wow Son-and-Heir or to work with her, Jemma couldn’t tell. She bit the inside of her lip, hard, to keep her objections to herself.

“Great. They’re well-respected firm and I really want to make an impression. Look at it this way, Jemma: this is a great chance for you to show us how you can plan an event from scratch before your probationary period is up. If it comes off well...”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to; the initial panic had already flared up and subsided, leaving Jemma with a clear picture of the situation with all its potential. On the one hand, if it didn’t go well she would be on shaky ground when it came time for her final assessment. On the other hand, why should it not go well? There were still three weeks; catering could be done in-house; the Starbright Ballroom didn’t need much to make it look nice. Fitz would be a bit of an issue, but she was a professional. She could rise to this challenge as she did any other. Sitting straighter, she nodded firmly. “We’ll give them our very best, Mr. Coulson. They won’t be disappointed.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Coulson rubbed his hands together. “I told them that you’d come to them for the initial meeting and Fitz, you should probably go too. Just figure out between you when you’ll have a couple hours. And that’s it, I think. Let’s just be sure to give them our very best.”

Murmuring something like “of course sir,” Jemma cast a sideways glance at Fitz as she rose and they made their way out of the office. He, holding the door, met her gaze and glanced quickly away. Excellent. Her whole job depended on working well with a man who couldn’t stand to look at her for two seconds together. Fortunately, she thought as she stalked to the lift, she was more than used to getting things done on her own.

* * *

They rode down the hill together in silence. For all that, it wasn’t too dreadful—while Fitz’s truck was messy, it smelled primarily of lemons and his radio stations were inoffensive. Apart from the soft sound of his fingers drumming against the steering wheel and his barely-there humming, nothing competed with the noise of Jemma’s thoughts as she stared unseeing out the window. All the myriad details of a party demanded her attention: the food, the music, the décor, the chairs, the dance floor—would they want a dance floor, if they were having a sit-down dinner? Was it meant to be a benefit or a celebration? Was it the kind of thing that would include a silent (or, lord, spoken) auction? And what, exactly, were these tables that Fitz was meant to make? She had looked up the pictures from the Valentine’s party in question and thought them fitting for that occasion but difficult to translate to anything having to do with the holiday. Did Fitz have an idea? She briefly considered asking him. Then, realizing he probably wouldn’t tell her anyway, decided to leave it until after the meeting. They wouldn’t really be able to plan anything until they had more information on the clients’ wishes, anyway.

When they got to the offices, Fitz threw the truck into park and turned to her. “I’ve only got an hour-and-a-half for this, remember.”

“I remember.” Patting her hair down, she barely refrained from rolling her eyes. He had been eloquent on his tight schedule while they were planning the meeting, objecting to every time slot she had suggested. Honestly, it was like some people had better things to do than their jobs. “I’m sure they’re very busy people too. We will endeavor to be expedient.”

“Well, good.” Fitz grabbed his jacket from the backseat and popped open the door. “It sticks, by the way.”

“What?” she said to his back as she grabbed the door handle, tugging it towards her. Then tugging again. Then yanking, followed by a wiggle, followed by a growl and another fruitless yank. Getting ready to reposition for better leverage, she found herself falling forward into the crisp air and Fitz’s blue-plaid sleeve as it held the door open; only a hasty clutch of the seat back kept her from tumbling straight into his arms.

“Sorry,” he said, blue eyes not at all looking so. “Latch sticks.”

She was a professional, she reminded herself, gathering the shreds of her dignity. She was a professional. Clambering down from the truck and hoisting her bag onto her shoulder, she made a show of checking her watch. “Since you’re in such a hurry, let’s not dally, hmm?” And she splooged her way towards the building without waiting to see if he would follow.

* * *

They were in and out of the meeting in an hour and eight minutes flat, which was good for Fitz’s schedule and that was about the best that could be said for it, Jemma reflected as she climbed back into the truck and stared bleakly through the windscreen. Oh, the clients had been more than accommodating— _too_ accommodating. Though excited about the prospect of the party, the Son-and-Heir had very little idea of what he actually _wanted_ and was more than ready to leap at any and all of her suggestions. His PA (maybe? It wasn’t clear if she actually worked for him) provided a bit more direction, but not enough that Jemma could picture how the event would look in the end. As Fitz got in on his side and started up the truck, she pulled out her notes and read them over again.

  * Extravagance
  * Non-denominational
  * Fish?
  * Dancing is a must
  * What is Fitz going to do for his tables????
  * Lavish!



Not a lot to be getting on with. She put her chin in her hands and stared, thinking hard. If only they had been able to suggest a theme! She would feel better about the whole thing. A nice party didn’t require a theme, obviously, but a central concept often helped draw otherwise disparate elements together and provided a shape when one had too many ideas. Which was clearly the case with this particular party. So: theme absolutely necessary to move forward. What kind of elegant, lavish themes would say “holiday” without saying, necessarily, “Christmas”?

Still thoughtful, she reached into her purse and pulled out one of her good pens. A brand available only at specialty art stores or ordered directly from the manufacturers in Japan, they were one of the few extravagances she allowed herself. If anything could get her in the right mindset to plan an obnoxiously expensive party, it would be these.

_Gifts of the Magi_ , she wrote. _Too religious? Maybe not if subtle_

  * Snowflake something, gold and white and silver
  * Winter Wonderland
  * General Victorian



“Is plaid elegant, though,” she muttered as she scrawled the last.

“Not anymore.”

She looked up sharply, but Fitz was still concentrated on the road.

“Especially here,” he continued, “up in woodcutter territory? No way.”

And, remembering that she hadn’t ever seen Fitz in anything but a plaid shirt, she accepted him as an expert and crossed out _General Victorian_. Too expected, anyway. What other winter-y, festive things were there? _The Snowman_ , obviously, but not obviously in this country; she had run into that problem early in her university career.[iii] Perhaps Christmas birds? What were Christmas birds in this country? _Ask Deke and/or Daisy for ideas_ , she finished. Then, flipping the page, she headed the next one _Food_. “Salmon,” she murmured, “unless pink clashes with color scheme—”

“Salmon’s not in season.”

Yet again, she hadn’t expected a response when speaking to herself. “But it’s—”

“Not in season,” said Fitz firmly. “You should get pike. It’s local, so it’ll be really fresh.”

“Pike,” repeated Jemma. A ridiculous suggestion; nobody ate _pike_. Even if it was local.

Fitz gave her a side eye. “Well, ask Ashley, she’ll tell you. Bet you anything she won’t let you get salmon since they didn’t request it.”

“Thanks, I don’t gamble.”

“Lose your money anyway.”

“Thanks,” said Jemma, drawing out the esssss. Where were all these opinions coming from? Four months with nothing more than the barest statements of fact or caustic criticism, and all of a sudden he was chattering like a parrot. Apparently sitting in that meeting made him feel he had a right to an opinion. _Well_. It wasn’t _his_ job at stake. Setting, she went back to her list and kept any further commentary to herself. She had no desire for this conversation to continue all the way up the hill.

* * *

Upon returning to the Lodge, Fitz hurried Jemma out of the truck without a by-your-leave and disappeared somewhere into the bowels of backstage—probably to clock out and rush out to whatever all-important thing demanded his time. She didn’t care. Tossing her hair, she put her coat in her office and went down to the kitchen to speak to Ashley in Catering.

“Salmon?” said Ashley, wrinkling her nose. “It’s not in season here. We could do a really nice oven-roasted pike, maybe stuffed if we want to spend our money there.”

“Whatever you think is best sounds lovely,” said Jemma. But it felt rather like the emotional equivalent of rapping one’s funny bone.

* * *

The clients, it turned out, were also enthusiastic about pike as a main dish, and loved the rest of the menu Ashley suggested. Jemma made a mental note not to mention it to Fitz if she could help it. Though he had lived her longer than she had, hadn’t he, so he was more likely to have his finger on the pulse of Vermont society, or something like that. Assuming he actually knew people and didn’t just hermit about in his basement office, as his emails to Santa might suggest.

> From: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> To: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> No, you didn’t miss something from me—how is that even possible? It’s not like you’re actually Santa and have loads of people writing to you? I told you that you don’t have to bother about it. Just get me something generic. Then, if Coulson makes a thing of it, I’ll say you cleverly weaseled it out of me. That should satisfy him.

Could it be true? she wondered, musing over the email as she walked into work a few days after their surprise team-up. Perhaps, for all the hoopla, the majority of Pine Tree Lodge really did treat the yearly gift exchange with as little concern as any other mandatory holiday festivities. Perhaps her Head Girl tendencies were rearing their heads again, making her work twice as hard as necessary in hopes of pleasing the authority figure. Perhaps she could really let this go and concentrate on doing her job well. How refreshing that would be!

“Hey, Jemma,” said Deke, popping over the counter, “I found this on my desk. It’s got your name on it.”

He held out a small rectangular package wrapped in a matte red paper; a tag dangling from a bit of twine spun around to reveal her name in a thick black handwriting. She accepted it curiously, flipping over the tag to read it in full: _To Jemma, From Santa_.

“Are you gonna open it?” Deke leaned further in. “It made a kind of weird noise.”

“Did you shake it, Deke?”

“Noooo.”

Curious herself, Jemma slid her fingernail under the tape at either end, then peeled back the paper to reveal the gift: four slim pens, black, with a .08 nib, guaranteed not to bleed and perfect for note-taking and diary-inscribing—and a _red_ one. She didn’t have a red one. “Oh, my.”

“Oh, it’s those pens you like?”

Her eyebrows furrowed as she glanced up quickly. “How do you know I like these pens?”

“Common knowledge,” said Deke airily, “You do a lot of writing a lot, Jemma, ever noticed? And obviously Pine Tree Lodge doesn’t fork over cash for pens of that quality.”

“They are extremely good pens.” She traced one finger over the packaging. “And, as you say, not inexpensive. I didn’t expect something like this. Certainly not before the party.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just a bit much, isn’t it?”

“Nuh-uh.” Deke shook his head fervently. “This is just the tip of the iceberg. Have you had anything else?”

“Anything else?”

“Like, I dunno. Your favorite cookies.” Jemma shook her head. “A coffee you weren’t expecting.” Still no. “Your car mysteriously cleared of snow when you went to leave at night?”

“Now you mention it—”

“There.” Deke spread his hands out in front of him as if to say _there you go_. “That’s the kind of thing with Secret Santa. It’s a big deal. Everyone tries to top each other. Last year, Justine’s Secret Santa gave her a different gluten-free snack every afternoon for the whole month. I think Nora in Housekeeping hit the jackpot this year; her Santa is somehow swinging it so that she only has to clean the unoccupied rooms.” Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “My money’s on Sharon.”

Jemma wasn’t sure she could pick Sharon, Nora, or Justine out of a crowd, but she had more important things to deal with right now. Clearly, she hadn’t over-reacted. If anything she was _under_ -reacting to the pressure of Secret Santa. No wondered Fitz had ranted eloquently about the pressure and the unspoken rules; how could anyone win at this mad game and still do their job? It was absolutely _mental_. “Fitz made it sound like it wasn’t—”

“Fitz. Pfft. He’s always trying to weasel out of playing. Don’t listen to him, listen to me. You cannot give Secret Santa a lick and a promise. It’s deadly serious business. I hear people get promotions from Secret Santa. They get bonuses.”

“Surely not,” said Jemma, trying not to wring her hands. “I don’t think that’s legal.”

“I’m just saying what I heard.” Deke shrugged, backing away. “Believe me or not, it’s your job on the line.” Then he winked. Then went deadly serious again. Then left her with four glorious pens and one horrible realization: even if Deke was just having one on, she couldn’t afford to disbelieve him.

* * *

> From: secretlysanta@smail.com
> 
> To: lfitz@pinetreelodge.com
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> You and I both know that Mr Coulson will never be satisfied with a generic gift. However, I appreciate that you don’t really care for this game, so I will not continue to demand you play along.
> 
> A question unrelated to Secret Santa, then: what do you do when you’re not at work?
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

[i] An immortal line from _Princess Diaries 2: A Royal Engagement_.

[ii] Astoundingly, the first one I saw this plot point in was this year’s _Christmas By Starlight_ , which I loved. The last-minute holiday party, however, is an old old trope.

[iii] The Snowman is an utterly beautiful cartoon that is England’s version of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ in that it is a well-beloved holiday special of long history.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I squEAKed this in before it had been a month—I'm SO sorry. But I've never not-finished a story that's gotten to publishing and I will not do so now.

> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> What do any of us do? Eat. Sleep. Waste time on the internet. Watch inane television. If you do anything else I’d love to hear about it.

* * *

As Fitz was singularly—if expectedly—unhelpful, Jemma had to do the best she could. Having noticed a half-empty bag of pretzels, a box of Triscuits, and a packet of dried cranberries in his truck, she found a box of nice nut bars during her weekly shop and stuck a red bow on it before sneaking it into his toolbag while he stood, hands on his hips, glaring stonily at the speaker system that should have been pumping festive tunes into the lobby. Well, he had mentioned eating as an off-work activity? “Excellent work,” she muttered. “That’s going to get the job done.”

“I’m doing my best, you know. No need to be shirty about it.”

Straightening, she only just managed to leap away from the toolbag before Fitz turned around, already glaring. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she said hotly. “There’s no need to assume conversation in your vicinity—”

“Sorry.”

“—is necessarily—what?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squinted shut. “Sorry. If I’ve had one person ask when the music will be back on, I’ve had twenty. Like I’m doing it on purpose. If there’s anything I hate more than a stupid question, it’s answering it more than once.”

With his face half-hidden, he looked like a tired boy facing his eighth GCSE exam. And he had said sorry, so she didn’t have to continue feeling affronted. “Nobody likes stupid questions,” she offered instead. “I never understood why people say there are no such things.”

“To make people feel better about themselves.” Running his hand down his face, Fitz sighed before returning to his former position. “Do you need something?”

Oh, no, just a reason to come over and stand awkwardly behind him like a creep. “Er. No, I was just...” Come on, Jemma. “...walking past. Thinking about something else.”

Fitz’s eyebrows quirked, but he didn’t otherwise indicate how pathetic her response was. “Is it about the, er, party? For the, you know.” One hand circled in the air as if to gather the words from the ether. “I haven’t been able to think about it.”

“No. I’m not thinking about it yet.”

“Really,” he said, obviously skeptical.

“Well, that is, of course I’m thinking about it. There’s loads to do. But there’s also loads of other things to do before that comes.” Saying it aloud brought the long list of parties, brunches, and mixers—which she hadn’t been able to pay proper attention to as she worried over this wretched Secret Santa project—back in full force, and she almost stumbled under the sudden weight of responsibilities. Fortunately, it also brought back the perfect excuse for her presence. “Actually, it was about one of those things—we’ve got a breakfast party in Holly on Saturday, but there’s a dinner in there on Friday night so we’ll have to do the set-up in between. Could one of your team be available to help move tables and so on?”

“Friday night?” He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Yeah, I think Mike’s on late that day. He should be able to do it.”

“Excellent. Well, that’s me then.” How did one walk away from a conversation one had never meant to begin? She had a strong desire to take a page from Daisy’s book and make finger guns.

“I’m gonna...” said Fitz, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Right! Right. Of course.” An idiotic _ha_ escaped, only one step up from a foolish giggle. With Fitz already back in the bowels of the sound system, Jemma felt safe in making a horrified face at herself. No wonder she didn’t have more conversations with her coworkers, if this was the best she could do. For Lord’s sake!

* * *

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> Most people, I believe, have other things they do. Myself, I enjoy a good detective novel and I am going to dinner at a friend’s after work tomorrow.
> 
> I expect people will have been giving you a hard time about the lack of music in the lobby today, but may I say: I rather appreciated not having to hear the holiday soundtrack on loop for five hours. No matter how classy the arrangement, there’s only so many times one can listen to Sleigh Ride before one wants to shoot all horses of sled-pulling age.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> You may be the only one in this whole hotel, but that’s nice of you to say.
> 
> I guess the nut bars were probably from you. Thanks. I’m pretty allergic to nuts, so I don’t need any more.

* * *

Daisy tried admirably to keep from howling at Jemma’s expense, but even her best sympathetic face was tinged with mirth. “It was a good idea, though! You tried!”

Daniel shoved the plate of biscuits closer to Jemma. “I would have loved a box of fancy nut bars.”

“I just don’t understand,” said Jemma, “how I’m meant to make things ‘personal’ when I don’t know anything about him, personally. We don’t have conversations. And he simply refuses to engage with me via email; he just keeps saying that he doesn’t see the point.” She sighed heavily. “Do you suppose if I told him straight out that I need to do well at Secret Santa, he might be obliging? Since he doesn’t know it’s me?”

“Now, that’s not exactly what he said,” said Daniel, who had read the correspondence in its entirely. “He said he doesn’t see the point in trying to find a really personal gift when you don’t know him personally. That’s different.”

“I don’t see how. And anyway, aren’t I trying to get to know him personally?”

Daisy nodded. “Yeah, for a project. That’s not the same at all.”

Jemma stared at Daisy blankly. Daisy took her turn to sigh.

“Come on, Jemma, you know this. What you’re doing as Secret Santa is like what companies do when they track your information online to sell you stuff. They don’t really care about you, they care about their end goal. You don’t really care about Fitz, you care about beating Secret Santa.”

“And?” Jemma bristled. “I tried to be friendly with Fitz at the beginning and he didn’t want to be friends. He can hardly expect me—”

“Right!” said Daisy, “but you can’t expect _him_ to be that crazy about playing along to make you look good to your boss.”

“So what am I meant to do?”

“Oh, I have no idea.” Daisy looked to her husband. “Babe?”

Daniel made a thoughtful face, canting his head to the side with a shrug. “Well, there’s a couple ways it could go. One: You could try the direct approach, but he already told you he’ll play along with Coulson if you give him something generic, so that probably won’t get you what you want. Two: you could just let it go. I mean, he won’t tell on you, so you’d just be counting on your boss not to notice.”

“Risky,” said Daisy, and Jemma agreed silently.

“Then you just have to get to know him in person.” Daniel took a sip of his coffee.

She had been afraid of that. “I can’t make friends with Fitz. There must be something else I can try.”

“All kinds of things you can try,” said Daniel, “but probably not anything else that will work. No school like the old school, after all, Jemma.”

Daisy rolled her eyes, but fondly. “And he was a Boy Scout, so you know he thought of everything.”

* * *

Of course Daniel was right, realistically, she thought the next day as she waited on an interminable hold with the chair rental company: the only way to get to know Fitz was to get to know him. And Daisy was right, too, that getting to know Fitz for obvious ulterior motives was hardly likely to elicit any useful information. No, she would have to try to properly befriend him. And—she stifled a groan at the thought—she would have to persist in friendly overtures to someone who had never been receptive to them, who had in fact rejected her earlier, non-ulterior motivated attempts. Not only did he not seem that keen on her, his attitude towards the entire Secret Santa event suggested a reticence to participate in the Lodge’s social life at large. Which, if true, struck her as horribly unfair—why should he get to be antisocial without ramifications while she bent over backwards to live up to Mr Coulson’s ridiculous standards? However, there wasn’t anything she could do about that. Ridiculous though the situation was, she had no choice.

Then again...he hadn’t seemed too upset by Santa’s attempted murder, when he clearly had a right to do so (this time). And he had offered a bit of personal information in his last message, so perhaps Santa was wearing him down?

* * *

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> Please accept my _sincere_ apologies for the nut bars. I had no idea you were allergic and would never have done anything like that if I had known. Perhaps you have a point about knowing each other in person—though, to be fair, you really have no way of being sure that we don’t know each other in person. Perhaps this is all a clever ruse to throw you off the trail. Not the nut bars, that is; those were a mistake.
> 
> To make up for it, in some small part, please accept [this cat video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Awf45u6zrP0). You may have seen it, but even so I haven’t found it loses its charms.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> I love that cat video. Its little paws are hilarious.
> 
> Don’t feel bad about the nut bars. Unless you’re in HR you would have no reason to know that even if we do know each other in real life. Unless this is Mike. But Mike would never in his life offer sincere apologies or talk about a ruse. Morris, maybe. Mike, no.
> 
> -Fitz

* * *

A signature! Jemma leaned back in her chair and “hmph”ed in satisfaction. So this little correspondence was finally paying dividends, then. She cracked her knuckles, determined to search up every cat video she and Daisy had ever giggled about at two in the morning—little enough to get on with, but a start. Her eye fell on the calendar: December 10. A start with only 13 days left? Cat videos might be enough for now, but she would have to work fast to come up with a gift for the employee party. Still, she couldn’t complain about progress.

* * *

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> Below, please find ten links to short but hilarious videos. Perhaps, like me, you are more than usually busy this time of the year and don’t have quite as much time to waste on the internet; if so rest assured that each of these videos are less than one minute long. I can personally vouch for the fact that they could provide the difference between needing to scream in a closet and being able to go on with your day with equanimity.
> 
> I can neither confirm nor deny being Mike. That’s not how this game works, you know.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> This is a work email. Do you think I would admit to watching funny videos online during working hours?
> 
> -Fitz

* * *

She canted her head as she read Fitz’s latest response. Bother, she had nearly forgotten that all this could be under review from the higher-ups. Fortunately, her response didn’t state or even heavily suggest that she herself watched funny videos during working hours, so she could deny any accusations. A bigger problem: had she undone her progress? Fitz’s insistence on using full stops made reading tone difficult at the best of times; this particular email seemed terse and chastising. Though he had signed his name, which had seemed a step up in the previous message?

“You all right there, Jemma?”

She glanced up at Deke and locked her screen quickly. “Just reading a slightly confusing email. I’m sure I’ll sort it.”

“Is it about that Christmas Eve party?” Deke shook his head. “You’d think people would be more decent than to spring a giant party on people like that the last minute. The turn-around on the tablecloths alone is causing major stress down in Housekeeping.”

“How do you know that, Deke?”

“The maids—”

“—know everything. Of course.” How Deke, the concierge, knew everything the maids knew was its own question; more important was how she hadn’t known there could be an issue. She jotted down a note to get to the bottom of that and fast. “No, it’s not, though perhaps it ought to be. It’s coming up quickly.”

“Decided on a theme yet?”

No, though not for lack of trying. Every attempt she made to narrow down the idea only made another two pop up, and the clients hadn’t been able to provide any more guidance. Even their final decision to include a silent auction to benefit the children’s hospital didn’t offer a direction, as the son-and-heir’s desire for life-sized tin soldiers had been quickly nixed by his PA. Which was for the best, really. Even the Starbright Ballroom would have to strain to host a silent auction, a dance floor, and a sit-down dinner even without adding enormous statues. The fun of organizing the layout had co-opted most of her mental energy and led to more than one deep-REM roundabout.

“Not yet. Did you need something, Deke?”

“No, but your Secret Santa thought you needed something. Do you want me to have Maintenance bring it over?”

“Maintenance! You can’t bring it yourself?”

“Too big,” said Deke, eyes alight, “we’re going to need a dolly.”

Having no other choice, she gave her permission and spent the next few minutes searching for a doorstop and hoping that “Maintenance” did not mean “Fitz”. When the dolly heaved into sight, however, the three-foot tall Christmas tree swaying precariously ahead of Mike and Deke put all other thoughts out of her head. It just barely scraped through the door without dislodging any of the dangling balls and necessitated the relocation of her bin, the coat rack, and her printer, but eventually they got it into a satisfactory place and Mike departed with only a few pine needles dropping from his hair. Deke stayed to admire.

“This is pretty high-class, Jemma. I never heard of a pre-decorated tree before—once Mr. Coulson’s Secret Santa made paper snowflakes and stuck them to his door, but then I think it turned out they had bought them online, so that hardly counts. This is next-level.”

“It is rather marvelous, isn’t it?” She bent over the tree to examine the crystalline stars dripping from the branches. Part of her questioned how her Secret Santa efforts could hope to compare with this, but her enchantment with the gift drowned it out. “I’ve been meaning to decorate in here and haven’t had time.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Of course she was sure; the only person in the whole Lodge she might’ve told was the person asking the question. “Just a lucky guess, I suppose. Well, I’m grateful.”

“Or someone knows you better than you think.” Deke winked with both eyes. “Have fun setting up Holly tonight. How late do you think you’ll be?”

“Oh, just a few hours, probably. Mike is meant to be helping me.”

“Mike is?” Deke’s eyebrows flickered. “Huh. All right. Well, hope it goes well.”

“It’ll be fine, I’m sure,” she said briskly. “No reason things shouldn’t go exactly according to plan.”

* * *

The dinner in Holly went longer than planned, but not longer than Jemma’s built-in contingency time. By ten, she and the wait staff had managed to clear all plates, napkins, and glasses from the tables, chairs, and inexplicable corners, leaving her free to begin bringing in the next event’s accouterments.

“Miss Simmons?” The teenaged staff lead, whose name was something like...Emma? shifted uneasily from foot to foot. “My team is wondering if we’re about done. Our shift’s up and we’ve still got to get back down the mountain.”

Jemma checked her watch, then glanced out the large double-paned windows, where small snow flurries glinted in the lights from the veranda. Yes, that would make driving difficult. And the poor thing looked completely done in; the team had worked hard tonight. “We’re not quite done, but you may as well go.”

“Thank you, Miss Simmons.” Emma—or maybe Emily?—turned to wave a _go on_ hand at her compatriots. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

What a good egg, full of initiative! Jemma felt warm with kinship towards the girl. “If you could hunt up Mike from Maintenance on your way out? He’s meant to be helping me with tables and so on.”

“I’ll see,” said Em-something, “but I don’t think Mike is here? I’m pretty sure I saw him clocking out when I came in.”

“Not here?” repeated Jemma. “I specifically asked—”

“We’ll look. Good night, Miss Simmons.”

The wait staff beat a hasty retreat. All for the best, as Jemma’s friendly smile had taken on dangerously sharp edges. Mike not here, after Fitz had promised? Why would he do that and then leave her without help? After they had a calm, business-like conversation about it? She had thought they might be nearing a civil working relationship, but if he insisted on pulling a stunt like this! “So much for _that_ ,” she said aloud as she yanked a white tablecloth off the nearest table and balled it with quick, sharp movements. “I suppose it was all—”

“Jemma?”

She almost choked on a shriek, jumping as she spun to face the speaker. Fitz had both hands out, whether to catch her or defend himself she couldn’t guess. “Hey,” he said slowly, “Ella said you were ready for me?”

“Ella?” she repeated, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.

“Yeah, Ella.” He indicated over his shoulder. “She said you were looking for me. If you—”

“I wanted”—no, that sounded mean—“I expected Mike. You said Mike was working late tonight.”

“Yeah. Well. Yeah.” Shoving his sleeves up towards his elbows, Fitz looked at something over her shoulder. “Schedule changed. Now it’s me.”

“Oh! Well.” She set the cloth, which she had been clutching to her chest, on the table next to her and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, attempting nonchalance.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. As long as it’s someone.”

Meeting her eyes again, Fitz shrugged, as though he wasn’t confident she would count him as someone. “So, do you...have a drawing, or something? How the tables should go?”

Now how, she wondered, did he know that? “Yes, in my notebook. One moment, I’ll get it.”

He stayed where he was until she handed him her blue notebook open to the page neatly marked “Baby Shower Brunch”, then set about breaking down the unnecessary tables while she finished gathering all the dirty linen into a neat pile. She’d dump them in the laundry on her way out. Then, hands on her hips, she surveyed the room as it stood. Fitz straightened up and mimicked her pose. “Is that the right spacing?” he asked. “I couldn’t tell if it was meant to be eight chairs or ten to a table.”

“Ten.” Eight tables of ten people; she couldn’t believe the guest list for this shower. What could a baby possibly need after eighty people gave it gifts? “I think the one in that corner ought to be a touch to the left.”

He moved the direction of the indicated table, canting his head. “A foot? Two feet?”

“More like...six inches.”

Stopping on the spot, he whirled as he squeaked out “Six _inches_?”

“Maybe eight.”

“You can’t just let it be.”

“Everything has to be perfect. It’s the attention to detail that sets our events apart, Fitz.”

From his thunderous expression, she expected him to argue back—to which, if necessary, she could recite a half-dozen comment cards to support her point—but instead he just made a frustrated noise and resumed his course. “Six inches. All right.”

Following behind him, she could hear the annoyed timbre to his mumbling, but not make out the exact words. “If it’s so much inconvenience,” she said, following behind him with as much dignity as she could manage, “perhaps you’d rather have Mike or Morris do it after all. I’m sure you have plenty of better things to be doing.”

“Not really.” Fitz snorted, pulling out a chair to position it exactly six inches to the left. “And actually, Morris is on paternity leave and Mike had his big family Christmas do he was going to miss if we hadn’t switched, so I’m what you’ve got.”

“Oh.”

Jemma pulled out her own chair and placed it just so, concentrating on the spacing to avoid having to respond straight away. She hadn’t known Morris was on paternity leave—hadn’t known he was expecting, to be honest, though if she thought about it she probably would have been able to remember he had a wife. And Mike’s family event must have been last minute, or he wouldn’t have been scheduled tonight; good of Fitz, then, to let him switch off a dreadful shift with so little notice. Perhaps he really didn’t have anything better to do than watch inane television and waste time on the internet. “What is it?” she tried after the chairs had been replaced and the table shifted in silence. “Er, Morris’s baby. Is it a boy or a girl?”

“One of each,” Fitz said, pushing up his sleeves. “I forget their names, but there’s a picture in the HR window. What’s next?”

“Linens, I think.”

He nodded, jaw set, then started towards the door, apparently intending to fetch up the linens for her even though he could hardly know which she needed. “Oh, I’ll get them—there’s very particular—”

“It’s fine,” he called back.

Hurrying after, she only just kept the Holly Room door from slamming into the still silence of the Lodge at eleven p.m. and legged it hastily across the lobby and through the backstage door towards the service lift, which was already halfway closed by the time she got there. Fitz held out an arm to stop the doors with a heavy sigh. “Going down, then.”

“I think it’s best,” she said, stepping in, and pushed the button for the basement before he got a chance to do so.

* * *

On the way back up, cart full of soft blue tablecloths and crisp navy serviettes, Fitz crossed his arms over his chest and turned to face her, his back to the door. “You know, the linens were labeled. I know you think I’m incompetent but I could have managed.”

“What?” She goggled. “I don’t think you’re incompetent.”

“You don’t.”

“No!” At his disbelieving expression, she said again, more firmly, “No, truly. You must be very competent or you wouldn’t manage your department. Mr. Coulson isn’t the sort of man to keep people in positions if they don’t do their job well.”

The lift dinged and the doors slid open, but Fitz didn’t appear to be interested in exiting. “If you don’t think I’m incompetent, why do you go out of your way to avoid asking Maintenance to do things for you? Literally. It’s our job.”

They had had this conversation before, she recalled, and it had not gone well. Rather than answering, she put both hands on the linen cart and began to push, expecting correctly that Fitz would jump out of the way to keep from being run over. He jogged up from behind her to open the door out into the lobby. “Don’t answer if you like,” he said over her head, “but that doesn’t give me any reason to change my mind.”

She pursed her lips and concentrated on keeping the cart in a straight line across the lobby. She didn’t want to quarrel with Fitz—ever, but certainly now when she needed to be befriending him. No one took well to being told that you didn’t trust them because they had let you down before, as their previous discussion of the topic proved. But if she didn’t say something they would still quarrel, because he would have his worst suspicions confirmed and likely get petulant, which she also didn’t need at the moment. What could she possibly say get through the rest of the set-up with as little conflict as possible? “I doubt I could say anything to change your mind,” she said, emphasizing _your_ , “but it’s not that I think you’re incompetent. And I have no issues with Morris or Mike’s work, either. I just like to handle things on my own.”

He kept pace with her, step-to-step. “Except when you ask Deke to help.”

“It’s Deke’s job to help.”

“To help _guests_. It’s _our_ job to help _you_ with set-up, tear-down, cleaning, fixing things. When you ask Deke to do it you mess up the Lodge flow chart. And that doesn’t seem like you. So”—he held his hands as if beseeching the sky to witness—“we’re back at incompetence.”

“Ugh, Fitz!” She stopped at the Holly Room door, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one was within earshot. “I don’t want to quarrel, but if you _insist_ on hearing it: nearly the very first thing I asked you to do didn’t get done as I needed it to, and I can’t have that happening again.”

“It’s about the chandeliers?! Oh, for the love of—” He let out a loud groan, making her raise both hands from the cart to shush him. “One thing, and we’re never trustworthy again?”

“Well, what about the cabanas?”

“What cabanas?”

She frowned, unable to believe he had forgotten. “For the Labor Day bash? There were meant to be seventeen cabanas and there were only seven put up. And the mosquito candles—”

“The work order only said seven, and I will take that to my grave.” Fitz crossed his arms. “And anyway, we got the other ten up twenty minutes before the party started, so I think that should serve as a point _for_ us, not against us. The truth is, you just don’t think anyone but yourself can handle your work—except Deke, apparently, even though he’s a muppet.”

“No! But it is _my_ work. My responsibility. My fault if something goes wrong. My job at risk. The only way I can be sure everything will be perfect is if I do it myself.”

“But that’s not the way it works here, actually. You literally cannot do everything yourself.”

“He’s right, you know.”

Both she and Fitz jumped, turning as one to face the speaker. About three feet away, a small, white-haired man in a red ski-suit blinked at them from over half-rimmed glasses.[i] “It’s not good to never ask for help,” he continued. “But she’s right too, son, that it’s hard to trust someone with something that means that much to you. Really, I think you could work this out if you just allowed that the other person might have a point.”

Fitz bit his lip. Jemma clutched the cart with both hands. “Thank you for the advice, sir. Is there anything we can do for you?”

“No, no.” He waved her suggestion off. “I just heard a clatter and thought I’d come see what it was. But it looks like I can dash away now. Good night to all.”

And then he turned and toddled back the way he must have come, disappearing into the Fireside Room and then from their view. Unable to look at Fitz, Jemma studied the folds of the serviettes. Good lord, arguing in front of a guest—what was it about the two of them that brought out the absolute worst in each other? It would be funny if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

“I think it’s funny anyway,” said Fitz, and when she looked up he did indeed appear to be trying not to laugh. “Do you know you talk to yourself a lot, Simmons?”

“I don’t,” she protested.

“You do.” Shaking his head, he held open the door and gestured inside. “Should we just pretend this didn’t happen?”

“Let’s.”

As agreed, they spread out the tablecloths in near silence. Jemma didn’t know what Fitz was thinking about, but she had more than enough in her own head to keep her occupied without worrying about what was going on in his. Truth be told, she hadn’t ever verified that the Labor Day work order said seventeen rather than seven, too confident in her own abilities and positive that a man who could be so cavalier with chandelier maintenance would likely be equally dilatory with cabana construction. With everything, really. And maybe she had been ungenerous when interpreting his later behavior; like with the sound system earlier in the week, he might have been brusque for reasons that had nothing to do with her. Not that it excused his rudeness, but...perhaps...he was only responding to what he saw as rudeness from her? Could it be they were both at fault?

She pondered the question as they went from the tablecloths to the dishes, then the serviettes, at which point she felt she had better say _something_ , or the moment would be lost.

“I’m sorry.”

She had been thinking the words so strongly, it took her a beat to realize that Fitz had said them instead. “I’m sorry?”

“No, _I’m_ sorry.” Fitz put down the handful of forks he had been counting out from their storage place in the buffet counter and put one hand on the back of his neck. “If I thought you thought we were incompetent, I should have done better about proving we weren’t. You shouldn’t have to make up for work you think we’re not doing. It sounds like we’ve— _I’ve_ —been making it harder for you to do your job, and that’s not fair. So, I’m sorry.”

Two apologies in the space of a week? Perhaps aliens had inhabited his body? Then, instantly scolding her internal monologue for its uncharitable impulses, she slowly set down the final serviette. “That’s all right.”

“Miss Jeffers was really hands-off about the maintenance part, so I got a little, er, testy when it seemed like you were being unreasonable. But it wasn’t very professional.”

“No,” she agreed, “but I haven’t been very professional either. And have been...equally testy. So I ought to apologize as well.”

“That’s all right.” Then he nodded, once, briskly, and picked up the forks again as if ready to pretend this hadn’t happened either. In keeping with their stereotypical tendencies, she supposed: understate everything, pretend unpleasantness hadn’t happened if at all possible. If they did that, though, how could she be sure anything would be different moving forward? And it had to be, truly. They couldn’t go on like this. “Fitz,” she began without knowing the end. “Do you think—”

Concentrating on juggling, probably, thirty forks, he spared her enough attention to raise an interrogative eyebrow.

“It’s just,” she started again, “we got off on the wrong foot somehow and never got right again. Never tried, maybe. Do you think we could start over, from the beginning?”

“Start over.”

“As though we’ve never done anything to irritate each other. Or as though we’ve only just met.” Imagining it, she came around the table, pulled towards him without meaning to go.

“What would that do?”

“Maybe nothing. Or maybe give us the chance to be decent colleagues.”

It appeared to be his turn to carefully set down the catering implements to consider his next words. Jemma waited, hands wringing behind her back. What on earth could be holding him back? Did he truly not regret the way they had been to each other, nor mind if they continued that way? Did he truly find her so terrible, that he couldn’t even conceive of being cordial? Or—or perhaps it had nothing to do with her at all? Remembering their email correspondence, she realized that it was entirely possible that he hesitated because he didn’t want to make friends? “We don’t have to give toasts at each other’s weddings or anything,” she blurted out. “But don’t you think it would be better if we weren’t constantly assuming the worst of each other?”

He looked up at that, oddly flushed. “I don’t—well, yeah. Okay.”

“Okay?” she repeated, voice fluttering for reasons unknown. “From the beginning?”

“From the beginning.”

He came around the buffet, abandoning the forks, and stuck out his hand. “Hi. I’m Fitz, maintenance manager.”

Jemma stifled a relieved chuckle. She hadn’t meant to go this far, but she could hardly make fun of him for taking her at her word. Shaking his outstretched hand firmly, she said, “Jemma Simmons. I’m the new event coordinator.”

“Welcome to the Lodge.” Their clasp fell apart as Fitz put his hands backwards on his hips. “Can I do anything to help you?”

“Yes, actually. Would you be able to bring in a fourteen-foot table and set it up over there? It’s to display the gifts on.”

“Sure.”

He made no move to leave, though, and she canted her head in a silent question.

“Oh! Oh, you were serious. Sorry, yeah, I’ll just—go, then.”

* * *

He returned with the table in short order and, though they didn’t speak much for the rest of setup, the atmosphere in the room was decidedly lighter. Jemma managed to keep her corrections to even-tempered requests, while Fitz, for his part, appeared to be doing his best to respond without his customary terseness. Nor did he complain when she put on some music to keep her energy up as the clock ticked toward midnight, even though Spotify decided to play rather more One Direction than she normally preferred. A good egg, she thought softly, then shook herself out of it.

When, at last, every piece of cutlery had been placed and the centerpieces centered, the green tablecloths hanging in perfect folds and the whimsical llama piñata hanging eerily over the head table, Fitz came to stand by Jemma as she looked at her work and declared it good. “Looks nice,” he said. “I mean, I don’t get the llama—”

“No one gets the llamas, Fitz. They’re just the new owls.”

“—but it looks good. You’re pretty good at this kind of thing.”

As it was much past her preferred bedtime, and she had undergone quite a seismic internal upheaval in the last few hours, she forgave herself for not coming up with a better response than “excuse me?”

“I mean it,” he said. “Miss Jeffers wasn’t...this wasn’t her kind of thing. She didn’t go so much for themes and detail.”

“What did she do, then?”

Fitz shrugged. “Dunno, I never asked her. But her comment cards always said that people appreciated how she made them feel special. They used to read them in rec meetings.”

“Oh.” Naturally, Jemma thought, the one thing she could never repeat. Well, she would just have to make up for it in other ways. “It’s good to have different approaches, sometimes.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Swallowing an obvious yawn, Fitz looked at his watch. “We’re done, right?”

“We are.”

“Great. If you want to get your coat and stuff, I’ll get the lights in here.”

A most sensible plan. Jemma thanked him and slipped away to her office, feeling her way to her coat and purse with a sense of real satisfaction in her work. Tomorrow’s clients would be delighted with the décor and she had managed to be civil to Fitz for the majority of an evening—more, he had been civil to her. Even if she never found out anything more about him, she would count a good working relationship as a success.

Of course, that assumed she would still have her job at the end of the month.

Blinking as she came back into the lobby lights, she blinked faster at the sight of Fitz hovering near her door. “Thought I’d walk out with you,” he explained, jamming his hands into his jacked pockets. “It’s slippery out there. And dark.”

As it was every night in Vermont in December, but Jemma saw no reason to put up a fuss. They were going the same direction, after all.

Still quiet, they went through the backstage door and down the echoing cement hallways, finally emerging out into the employee parking lot under a dark, clear, cold sky. Jemma threw her head back to take a deep breath and ended by gasping instead. “Oh, glorious! Isn’t the sky just glorious tonight?”

Fitz stopped from where he had walked a few steps ahead of her and looked up himself. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

The stars flung themselves across the breadth of space, spangled recklessly over the tree-framed expanse directly above the car park. Had there ever been a more beautiful sky? Jemma thought, just as recklessly, and decided there had not. “Don’t you love the stars? I used to chart them with my father. I know all the ones at home and am trying to learn them here—but somehow I don’t get the opportunity to see them very often.” She took another deep breath. “They feel like home, anyway. No matter where I am in the world, the stars are always there, reminding me of my place.”

“What’s your favorite?”

She fell back to earth with a thud, flushing despite the cold. What had come over her, to open up her heart like that, and to him of all people? No amount of exhaustion could excuse that kind of embarrassing behavior. “Oh, you can’t see it now. Not here, at least.” Exaggerating a shiver, she resumed her course to the car, walking more briskly than before. Fitz’s footsteps crunched through the snow behind her. She resolutely did not look back.

When she reached her car in its pool of artificial light, she fished her keys from her coat pocket and turned to him. “Thanks for your help,” she said again. Though of course it was his job. “See you tomorrow, I guess?”

“Yeah.” Fitz stamped his feet, making no motion to move towards his truck. The light above threw his face into shadow, though his eyes stood out very blue. “I do, actually.”

“Do what?”

“Love the stars. And the galaxies. You can’t see my favorite, either, until the summer. It’s, um. The Corona Borealis?”[ii] And then, nodding, he said “good night, Jemma,” and walked away, out of the light, leaving her watch him go for far longer than the winter weather should have allowed.

* * *

[i] YES. YOU ARE CORRECT. SANTA.

[ii] Corona Borealis is right next to Serpus, Jemma’s fave—but there’s another reason it’s Fitz’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Shoutout to Michael and Morris, Maintenance Men at the late lamented 429. Jon, you also deserve props, so you get to have Fitz in your place.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's been so long, a brief reminder of where we were: Stuck setting up for a baby shower til all hours of the night, Fitz and Jemma agreed to start over as civil co-workers who don't assume the worst of each other. Handy, since they're still meant to be working together to throw the best last-minute Christmas Eve bash a Lodge can throw, and time is counting down to the Secret Santa reveal...

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> Certainly not. I know you to be a contentious and diligent employee. Only, we all have to eat sometime, say. Or perhaps you have frustrations in your life outside of work that could benefit from the judicious deployment of a cat video? Regardless, it’s a gift and you may do with it what you will.
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

* * *

After the late-night détente between herself and Fitz, Jemma found the pressures of her workday immensely eased. She hadn’t quite realized how much she had been overcompensating for Fitz’s (perhaps perceived) shortcomings; not having to oversee every detail of cleanliness or setup gave her time to concentrate on the details people actually noticed. And to be fair to Fitz, he hadn’t slipped yet. Every speck and inch met her exceedingly high standards.

“I told you we were competent,” he said, hanging a hammer of his pocket by its claw.

“I don’t believe I ever said you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to, I can say we aren’t competent whenever I want. It’s the other thing that needs saying. Got to keep morale up.”

“Particularly during the busy season?”

“I don’t know.” He lilted sideways to lean his shoulder against the door jamb. “Might be harder in the slow season when it’s just unclogging toilets and painting trim a new coat of white.”

“Well, I shall endeavour to keep you busy, for my part.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second.”

Her old reflexes jerked to a sharp retort, but fortunately the glimpse of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth soothed the rap. He had a nice smile, she thought—at least, it promised to be a nice smile if ever allowed to bloom in full. Then, suddenly worried she had been staring at his mouth longer that appropriate, she flicked her hair over her shoulder and said breezily, “Job security, you know, Fitz. It’s nothing to sneeze at in these trouble times.”

To her surprise, the smile dropped away like it had never been there. “Yeah. I guess.” He cleared his throat, taking the hammer from his pocket and turning it over in his hands. “So, next week’s snowman thing outside—you’ll need the heaters—”

“—and the tents—”

“Right, and someone to put up the banner.”

“Perhaps two people would be better.” She held up both hands in quick surrender. “Not that I mean to tell you how to do your job.”

But rather than smiling again, he just looked at his watch and said, “speaking of, better get back to it. See you later, Simmons.”

He strode off without waiting for her “bye”, leaving her slightly flat-footed. How had the pleasant conversation turned so quickly stilted? She hadn’t said anything personal or been too harsh, had she? Jemma huffed. Relations had certainly improved, but apparently even a friendlier Fitz was still a bit prickly.

All things considered, however, she felt rather more positive on the Secret Santa front as well. By combining their casual in-person conversation with the more specific data gleaned from Santa’s emails, she ought to be able to come up with something personal enough to please Mr. Coulson.

* * *

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> That’s nice of you to say. Don’t know how true it is, really, but job security is a premium in these troubled times. It was kind of a joke, anyway—about watching videos at work. I know for a fact Coulson likes that kind of thing within reason. Did you know the Grumpy Cat mug in the break room is his? – Fitz

Which seemed unbelievable to Jemma, but was fully backed up by Deke when she asked him about it.

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> I had _no_ idea, though I did vaguely wonder how it remained so sacrosanct. Of course, that explains a good deal. And who can blame him—the right mug is vital, and the ones found in common areas are so distressing. Have you got a favorite mug, perhaps one in which to put a beverage purchased using a gift card from a certain co-worker?
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> Whatever’s clean and big is good enough for me, but I don’t bring them to work. Travel mug, maybe, in the winter when it’s cold. I don’t have the luxury of being able to drink a whole mug of tea while it’s still hot in this job. – Fitz

Some actual, honest-to-goodness personal information! No matter that there wasn’t anything immediately obvious for Santa to do with that knowledge; the mere fact of his presence meant she was wearing him down. The rest could come later. She dashed off a response before heading to her next appointment:

> To: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> From: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> Dear Fitz,
> 
> What a tragedy! I must have three or four hot drinks a day, with one thing and another. I consider it a perk of the position. Still, for a job one loves one is willing to put up with a great deal. What special perks do you enjoy as Maintenance Manager?
> 
> Secretly,
> 
> Santa

> To: [secretlysanta@smail.com](mailto:secretlysanta@smail.com)
> 
> From: [lfitz@pinetreelodge.com](mailto:lfitz@pinetreelodge.com)
> 
> I don’t. It’s a job. The perk is you get paid.

She sighed heavily. Two steps forward, one step back.

* * *

Leaving that night—at an almost decent hour, for once—Jemma stopped halfway to her car and turned towards the sound of Fitz’s voice, which called out her name from somewhere in the darkened car park. The deep blackness between the pools of golden light made locating him difficult until, with a cut-off curse, he slid into sight just in front of her. “The ice is terrible, isn’t it?” she said by way of greeting.

Glaring darkly, he kicked at the ground. “It’s like it thinks we haven’t got anything else to do besides put down salt.”

“I believe the sleet this afternoon washed whatever salt was there away.”

“It’s how it goes. Things just keep breaking.”

He scowled—if possible—more deeply and jammed his hands in his pockets. Between them, their breaths billowed in shimmering shivers. Jemma crossed her arms across her chest, waiting to hear the reason he had decided to keep them standing here shivering. When nothing was forthcoming, she offered a prompt: “Did you need—?”

“Ah, yes. Yeah.” He took his hands from his pockets, rubbed them together, shoved them back again. “It’s about the Christmas Eve do. I was just wondering, I know you’ve been busy, but if I’m meant to build something—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Fitz.” A pang of guilt slammed headfirst into her sternum. The party hadn’t ever been absent from her mind, but he had no way to know that. “I haven’t decided yet what will be best. I’m still trying to sort it out.”

His eyebrows all but disappeared under the edge of his beanie. “Not leaving yourself a lot of time, are you?”

“No, but it’ll be all right. I’ve got the general floor plan plotted, and the menu is done—”

“I heard Ashley talked you into pike after all.”

“—and I’ve more or less decided on a blue-and-bronze color palate,” she said, pointedly ignoring his comment. “It’s nearly the only color scheme with linens available, anymore, but I think will be classy without shouting about any particular holiday.”

“Except maybe ‘Ravenclaw wins the House Cup.’”

“Well—oh.” She brought her mittened hands to her face. “Oh _no_. Do you think—”

He shrugged. “Probably not. The movies make everybody think it’s silver, anyway.”

“I suppose I could add in some gold and silver as well,” she mused, her mind already swapping out matching bronze urns for tall glass vases with various colored candles reflecting off…some sort of ornament she would figure out later.

“Couldn’t hurt,” said Fitz, “unless it makes your theme go naff.”

“Which is impossible to say, at this point.” She stifled a sigh and returned her arms to their crossed position. “The theme will come, I think, but at the moment I’m rather uninspired. I may end with no theme whatsoever. If there’s enough alcohol perhaps no one will mind.”

“That’s all anyone goes to these things for, anyway.” Jemma found this rather cynical, but in keeping with Fitz’s curmudgeonly attitude. “Except I need to know what you’re thinking about so I can plan and make time for it. It’s only two weeks away. Less than.”

“Ten days.”

“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “So. Do you have anything at all? Maybe if you hear it out loud, it might sound like more of an idea?”

_No_ sat on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t have anything like a usable idea, after all, only half-jotted notions. To do his work, he would need a concrete direction. But something about his patient, inquisitive look up through his eyelashes made her say instead, “Halfway out of the dark. That’s the start. It isn’t Christmassy, per se, but I thought of it because of—”

“ _Doctor Who_ ,” he finished with her. “Great episode. The cloud sharks are pretty cool.”

“They are,” she agreed, wondering at what point he would stop surprising her. “Leaving aside the sharks, however, and the cryogenically frozen people, it seems to me to strike the right tone.”

“Not a reference most people will get, though.”

“No, unfortunately.”

He tapped his fingers against his chin. “Too bad. It’d be fun to build a TARDIS. Make it big enough that people could go inside and take pictures—”

“Like a photo booth?” She took a step closer to him, drawn in by the idea. “Businesses do enjoy that sort of thing; looks good in the company newsletter. Could we do a different kind of photo booth instead, perhaps one with a winter theme?”

“Or a few, maybe,” said Fitz. “You could put it on a track, slide ‘em back and forth like barn doors. Choose your own winter scene.”

“Ye-es,” she said slowly, imagining it. The concept—something between a photo booth and one of those boards with holes cut out for one’s face—intrigued, but a good many questions pulled hard at the mental reins. How easy would it be to move the panels back and forth? How would he mount them, and where? Would the guests be happy to use their phones to take pictures, or would they need to somehow find an available photographer? “How big do you think?” she said, seizing upon one to begin. “There isn’t any too much floor space.”

“Not sure, we’d have to look at your plan.”

“Would we use painted backdrops or printed ones?”

“I don’t know, probably printed if it’s feasible.”

“What about—”

“Jemma, I don’t know, I literally had this idea forty seconds ago. We’d have to figure it out.”

Of course he was right; something like this needed exact planning, with measurements and quotes and drafts. “Let’s do it, then,” she said.

“What?”

“Let’s figure it out. I’ll get my book—I’ve got all the room dimensions written down—and we’ll see if it’s feasible.” She glanced up at the sky, which had, sometime in the last few minutes, decided to start spitting lazily, as though deciding whether it was worth working up to a proper storm. “Not here, though. I’ve got cocoa in my office. Or perhaps we should go somewhere else for drinks instead?”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

Fitz took a step back. Jemma hadn’t noticed how close they were standing until suddenly they weren’t anymore. A fat, freezing drop made its way under her collar and trickled down her neck; yes, definitely raining, she thought, and tried not to find a metaphor in the event. Even so, she wasn’t surprised when he said, “I don’t think so.”

She should have expected as much, she knew, but she had rather hoped this would be another time he surprised her, after all. “But we’ve only got ten days,” she tried, _not_ desperately, “you said yourself, we’ll need time—”

“There’s time,” he said, already backing away, “plenty of time in working hours to do work. Have a good night, Jemma.” And with that he disappeared into the dark, leaving her—yet again—to wonder where things had gone wrong.

* * *

“Well duh,” said Daisy the next day, “you basically asked him out. What did you expect?”

Jemma’s hand froze halfway to the scarf she thought her mum might like and she turned to Daisy, horrified. “I did not! I very clearly stated it was about work. Powdered cocoa in my office isn’t romantic in the _least_.”

Daisy tipped her head back and forth. “Grey area, if you ask me. Darkened offices have something dangerous about them, don’t you think? Like forbidden romance.” She grinned, dipping her chin so Jemma could see her suggestive eyebrow wiggle. The scarf-seller, a bored teenager, subtly leaned over the wooden booth counter to better hear the conversation.

Instead, Jemma grabbed Daisy’s arm and led her firmly back out into the Christmas market. Mum would just have to have a different scarf; she certainly could not return where she would be so dramatically misunderstood. “Who said anything about the dark? Anyway, there would be people walking by every two minutes—”

“At nine o’clock at night?” Daisy asked, obviously enjoying herself. Jemma did not give her the pleasure of an honest answer.

“And, as I mentioned, it was clearly a work activity, not anything…illicit.”

“He’d see it if he was looking for it.”

“Well, he wouldn’t look for it,” said Jemma, firmly. “He doesn’t like me even in the normal way. We’re only barely civil co-workers.”

“Mmhmm,” said Daisy. “Well, then, he probably just didn’t want to do a ‘work’ thing with you outside of ‘work’ hours. Maybe he doesn’t like mixing business and pleasure. Plenty of people don’t! I even get annoyed when Daniel asks me for computer help on the weekends.”

“Daniel needs computer help?”

“I don’t think you really understand,” smiled Daisy, fond, “how much of a grandpa he is. Should we get some cider? I think we should.”

As they got their hot cider and returned to their traditional wander-round-the-Christmas-market, Daisy appeared to forget their earlier conversation in favor of sharing her own work stories and asking Jemma’s opinion about the seemingly thousand different presents she had to buy. Perhaps, like a good friend, she realized she had gone too far. Or—equally likely—like a good friend, she knew that she didn’t need to say anything else to leave Jemma mentally chewing over her suggestion like a bit of cud. Surely, Fitz couldn’t have thought she meant—she hadn’t suggested—though that would explain—but no, it was ridiculous! She meandered through the fair without seeing much of anything, making noises when Daisy asked her opinion but otherwise occupied dissecting every millisecond and micro-expression of the car park conversation. _Surely_ not.

“So, is he cute?”

“Who?” said Jemma, startled.

Daisy rolled her eyes. “ _You_ know. The intolerable Fitz. Is he hot?”

“No! Or, well, he isn’t _hideous_. He wears a great deal too much plaid, but otherwise. He’s just an ordinary sort of fellow, I suppose.”

Daisy narrowed her eyes. Squirming, Jemma tried to remember if she had ever told Daisy that once, back in the early days before everything went sideways, she had thought Fitz incredibly handsome. She didn’t _still_ think that, but Daisy would never believe her. Then, much to Jemma’s relief, Daisy appeared to give up the interrogation, shrugging as she tossed her cider cup in a nearby bin and pulling out her phone to check the time. “If we want to bake cookies tonight we should probably be going; Daniel’s got some wild plans for dinner and has already told me he wants to use both ovens. You ready?”

Jemma nodded assent, giving herself a half-promise to come back another day when she wasn’t so distracted. It would be a pity to miss the Christmas fair mulling over a bothersome co-worker.

In the time they had been wandering, the crowds had gotten thicker, so that their casual stroll had become, of necessity, careful weaving through the hordes. Daisy, who had the focus of a laser in her work and squirrelled around when not actively concentrated on something else, kept almost running into people as they made their way back to the car, darting sideways to look at something new or gesturing too wildly as she emphasized a point. More than one time she would have run bodily into someone if Jemma hadn’t gently steered her back. It was, then, the height of irony that just a yard away from safety, Jemma stepped solidly into another body, eliciting an _oof_ that was as familiar to her as the scent of the jacket. She looked up in dismay.

“Jemma?” said Fitz, still wincing. “What the—”

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t see you there—I was”—she waved lamely back in what she expected to be Daisy’s direction—“my friend doesn’t really watch where she’s going—”

“Did you meet by running into each other?” he asked, grumbly but not cross.

“We met at college, actually—we were roommates—oh, it doesn’t matter. Are you all right?”

“You’re not exactly a lorry. I think I’ll manage to live.”

“Oh good,” she said before her brain caught up to his joke, and then immediately, “Well, of course you will, one hardly dies from getting bumped into. Of course.” She twisted her hands together, wincing. Honestly, could she be more awkward? “Sorry, again,” she said, and had almost made her escape when Daisy arrived, already laughing at Jemma.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that happen outside a movie,” she said, “are you okay, Jemma? And…dude?” Her eyes went from mirthful to considering, tracking over Fitz as though scanning him. Jemma held back a groan.

“Fitz,” said Fitz. Jemma couldn’t hold back a groan this time. She already knew what would happen next.

“Oh, _Fitz_!” Daisy’s voice grew silky smooth. “From up at the Lodge, right? You work with Jemma? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“That’ll be the chandeliers, I expect,” said Fitz, looking pained.

To Jemma’s gratitude, if not quite honestly, Daisy brushed that off. “You guys got handed the Christmas party last minute. What a pain. Jemma’s been telling me that you’re helping her come up with a theme?”

Fitz ducked his head, reaching up with one hand to tug at his ear. “Er, no. She’s doing that; I’m just doing a project to impress the guests.”

“It won’t take much,” offered Jemma. “Lovely to see you, Fitz—”

“Heading into the market?” said Daisy, as though there was anyplace else Fitz could be going. Realizing this himself, he gave her a sideways look as he admitted that yes, that was exactly what he was up to. “There’s, like, twenty million people in there right now, so watch out.”

“Oh. Well. I’m just going to the Cozy Cookie booth, so it’s just a quick—” Fitz made a _zip-zoop_ noise with his mouth to indicate the speed with which he would be in and out. “Thanks.”

Daisy clicked her tongue. “Ooh, bad news. Cozy Cookies packed up early—sold through in record time today. Right, Jemma?”

Jemma, neither sure about the cookie booth nor what Daisy was up to, made a non-committal noise.

“What?” Fitz dropped his head back with a groan. “Oh, that’s just _super_. Elena’s going to chew my head off.”

“Are you a gingerbread man?” murmured Daisy. Jemma elbowed her.

“You needed cookies?”

“Not just any cookies,” said Fitz miserably, “Cozy Cookies. They’re Mando’s favorite and I swore I’d bring them for his birthday party tomorrow. Great. Worst godfather ever.”

Daisy shot Jemma a look that clearly said _godfather?_ She ignored it to say sympathetically, “oh, rotten luck. Can’t you get some tomorrow? I’m sure they’ll be back.”

“No fair tomorrow,” said Daisy.

“And I’m working anyway,” said Fitz miserably, drawing his hands down his face. “I was supposed to drop them off tonight. Well, there’s nothing for it. I’m just going to have to throw myself on Elena’s mercy. She’s religious, she’s supposed to forgive me.”

“I’m sure she will,” Jemma agreed. “Sorry, Fitz. I hope it works out.”

She grabbed Daisy by the elbow and started to drag her to the car, but Daisy, stubborn as a donkey, dug her heels in and refused to move. “How old is he? What kind of cookies does he like? Like, will he know the difference?”

“He’s nine, he likes all kinds of cookies. He especially wanted Cozy Cookies this year because he’s having a _Mandalorian_ -themed birthday and they have these—”

“Baby Yoda cookies!” Daisy jumped up and down a little. “They’re so cute! I’ve seen them on Insta. But I think you’re supposed to pre-order them, they go so fast.” She frowned. Jemma braced herself, recognizing Daisy’s scheming face. “You know. I think you can do those at home with an angel cookie cutter. It won’t be as professional, but I bet your godson won’t care.”

“If only I had an angel cookie cutter,” said Fitz flatly.

“Wow, you know what?” Daisy smacked Jemma’s arm lightly, as if she just realized something. Jemma had a sinking suspicion that instead she and Fitz had just walked into a trap. “We were going to bake cookies, and we have an angel cookie cutter. Why don’t you come? We can do some Baby Yoda cookies for the party so you don’t have to get your head chewed off.”

Jemma’s quick intake of breath would have embarrassed her if she thought anyone had heard it, but Fitz spluttered loud enough to cover the inadvertent gasp. Daisy waved off his unformed objections. “No, I’m serious, it’ll be fun. You’d need, what, four or five dozen for a birthday party?” Fitz nodded. “You couldn’t do that all by yourself. Unless—” She looked briefly abashed. “Maybe you have people who could help. Or who have angel cookie cutters.”

“No,” said Fitz. “But I really couldn’t—”

“You could,” said Daisy firmly. “In fact you should. Tell him, Jemma.”

They both looked for her answer, Daisy with a challenge and Fitz, his shoulders defensive and face resigned, clearly expecting a ‘no’. Jemma could never say, after, which expression tipped her over into saying, “Of course you should, if you like, Fitz.”

Surprise sparked in his eyes. “I don’t want to bother you when you’re not at work.”

“It’s no bother,” she said, equally surprised to find she meant it, “if it’s helpful to you and will keep your godson from being disappointed. I don’t know that our cookies will be as professional, but—”

“Then I’ll come.”

“You will?”

“Yeah.”[i]

He nodded, much more solemnly than seemed necessary for accepting an invitation to make cookies with a coworker. Somehow, though, Jemma didn’t find it out-of-place. If starting over had been the cease-fire in their hostilities, this somehow seemed as though they had agreed to sit down at the treaty table to build something new.

* * *

After a brief kerfuffle about the cars—Daisy suggested he follow them to her house, Fitz insisted on going to the grocery store for supplies, Daisy thought in that case he had better take Jemma in his truck so she could tell him the way until Jemma rightly pointed out that maps apps had been invented for these very situations—Daisy and Jemma headed home to clear away the dishes and prepare Daniel for the arrival of a stranger.

“What,” said Daisy about ten minutes into the trip.

Jemma stopped gazing out the window. “What?”

“You’re chewing on your lip,” said Daisy, “which means you’re worrying about something, and I think I know what but I don’t have superpowers, so you’re going to have to tell me.”

“I’m not—”

“You _are_.”

Jemma didn’t answer. Away from Fitz’s hang-dog expression, the whole thing seemed slightly ludicrous—was she really planning to spend an afternoon baking cookies with someone who had, until a few days ago, all but loathed her? And the thing didn’t seem like the worst idea on the face of the planet, but potentially something to enjoy? Perhaps he had felt backed into it; perhaps she had been wrong about the level of rudeness he found acceptable and he hadn’t been able to avoid the situation without transgressing his own moral code? How could this end anything but poorly?

“Hey.” Daisy’s right hand left the steering wheel to land on Jemma’s knee. “It’s going to be fine, you know? He would have said no if he really wanted to.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Babes. Of the two of us, who knows people?” Which point Jemma had to allow. Daisy patted her leg twice. “Also. You totally lied earlier. He’s _way_ better looking than a dude.”

“Nobody asked you,” said Jemma, and Daisy laughed.

* * *

Fitz showed up just as they finished the dishes, sheepishly appearing in the kitchen laden down with several bulging canvas totes. “I googled a recipe,” he said, “multiplied by five, and got something like nine boxes of butter, so I hope there’s enough.”

“Plenty,” said Daisy. “More than plenty. We’ll be able to bake cookies for two days straight, if we want. Bring the supplies over here and we’ll get going.”

Fitz moved the direction Daisy indicated, offering Jemma a small smile as he passed her. “Are you any good at this?”

“Baking? It’s just ratios. You’ll be good at it too, I expect, once you start.”

“Let’s hope I’m at least competent.”

He turned out, actually, to be a natural, bringing to cookie-baking the dedicated concentration she had already seen on display as he approached his work at the Lodge. Careful measuring, thorough beating, exact timing—his cookies came out of the oven the perfect golden-brown every time, even the edges of their wings/ears the right amount of crisp once they cooled. Watching him deliberately outline Baby Yoda’s brown icing jacket with his brow furrowed almost into a scowl, Jemma realized how she had misjudged him. He didn’t look cross all the time because he _was_ cross all the time; he looked cross because he cared about making it right. She could appreciate—no, admire—no, understand that.

Or perhaps, she thought as the afternoon wore on, she had been more right than not. Though Fitz hadn’t suddenly turned into the life of the party, something about him seemed lighter in Daisy’s kitchen than she had ever seen him at the Lodge. He made sly quips; he threatened to smile; he told stories about his godson that had both she and Daisy in stitches. When Daniel came in, demanding cookies in payment for not being able to make his duck a l’orange, Fitz struck up an easy conversation with him about the tribulations of snow shoveling. More than once Daisy caught Jemma’s eye with her eyebrows up: _this is the terrible Fitz?_ Jemma could only preform the facial equivalent of a shrug. It rather reminded her of Lizzy Bennet with her aunt at Pemberley, completely astounded by the friendly, outgoing Mr Darcy.[ii]

Five-and-a-half dozen Baby Yodas, four dozen snowmen, and six dozen snowflakes later, Daisy sprinkled the last sugar sparkle and stood back to admire their handiwork. “Not bad for an afternoon’s efforts,” she said with satisfaction.

“They look smashing,” said Jemma, bringing Fitz a fresh cup of tea and cupping her hands around her own. “The Baby Yodas especially. Will they do, do you think?”

Fitz canted his head sideways, momentarily pausing in his attempt to put half a cup of sugar into his mug. “I think they’ll do. You can tell what they’re supposed to be, anyway.”

“They look great.” Daniel snagged a snowman and examined it critically. “These, on the other hand…”

Daisy, her mouth open in pretend woundedness, said “hey!”

“It’s okay, babe,” he winked. “It’s all the same in the stomach.”

In response, Daisy reached across the counter and smeared icing on Daniel’s nose, to which he answered with flour to her cheek, to which she retaliated with a handful of flour flung in his general direction. Jemma took a quick step back, not wanting to be involved in a food fight, and found Fitz at her back doing the same.[iii] “Do you feel,” he murmured, “like we’re suddenly superfluous?”

“This happens not infrequently,” she whispered back. “They haven’t been married very long, you see.”

Fitz nodded wisely. “Time to make a hasty departure?”

“Give them a minute, they’ll come back to polite society.” He had icing on his own face, she noticed, a swipe of green just at the edge of his jaw disappearing into the shadow of scruff. Would he look distinguished with a beard? she wondered, then pulled the thought back along with her hand, which was unconsciously moving to wipe off the icing. “Anyway, if you try to take the last batch now they’ll smudge.”

“How long do you think before they can be packed up?”

“Why does it matter?” asked Daisy, apparently able to flirt wildly with her husband and listen in on a private conversation. “Fitz is staying for dinner, isn’t he?”

“Oh, I—” He flushed, glancing to Jemma. “I hadn’t—”

“You should,” said Daniel, dropping his arm around Daisy’s shoulder. “We’re ordering pizza, so it’s no trouble.”

“Well, I—”

“Do,” said Jemma.

* * *

After dinner, she and Fitz found themselves bundled into their coats and tromping out to the firepit, where Fitz was to build a fire while Daisy and Daniel gathered the accoutrements for schmores.[iv] Jemma had been sent to hold the flashlight.

“Do you actually know how to start a fire?” she asked, climbing atop one of the wooden benches that surrounding the firepit to direct a wider beam of light on his working area. He glanced up at her and huffed, throwing his scarf over his shoulder.

“Who d’you think sets the fires at the lodge, Suzy?” This was no doubt a joke Jemma didn’t understand, but Fitz continued without waiting for a response. “Even if I didn’t, I’d look it up. They weren’t taking no for an answer. Can you put that light—”

“Oh! Sorry.” She shifted two steps to the left on the bench and clutched the torch with both hands, training it towards the center where Fitz was now engaged in crumpling up newspaper and poking it between the logs. After every sheet he stopped to blow into the cup of his ungloved hands. Jemma’s fingers curled in sympathy. “I hope you don’t feel—well, backed into a corner about today. The cookies and the dinner and now the schmores—”

“I mean, a little.” He shrugged. “Your friend Daisy is a force of nature. You don’t mind being bowled over by her, though. Seems like she has your best interest at heart.”

“She does, at that.” Jemma smiled fondly. “She’s been that way as long as I’ve known her, ever since uni. She took me under her wing and insisted on being friends, whether I wanted to or not. I’ve been grateful every day.”

“My friend Mack—Mando’s dad—he’s the same. I was a crabby little git when I first came to the Lodge.”

“You met him at the Lodge?” she said, startled.

“Yeah, he was Maintenance Manager before me. I took over when he left.” He sat back on his heels, shading his eyes with one hand to look at her past the light. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“Oh, I just thought—” No way out of this one. “I didn’t think you made friends with people at the Lodge.”

As she expected, he bristled up like a brooding bird. “Of course I make friends with people at the Lodge. Unlike you, I don’t think work is the be-all-end-all.”

“Of course you’re pleasant to them,” she persisted, too proud to back down, “but you never seem to want to have anything to do with the staff life. How many times have you said how much you hate Secret Santa?”

“I hate Secret Santa, but that doesn’t have anything to do with being friendly.”

“That’s the whole point of Secret Santa!”

“Nooo,” he said, getting to his feet and putting his hands on his hips, “the point of Secret Santa is for Coulson to pretend like the staff is one big happy family by putting unhealthy amounts of pressure on people who are already busier than they have any right to be. It’s got nothing to do with actually knowing people. I told you that before. The whole thing is an exercise in fakeness.”

“Well, but—” Realizing just in time she was about to fling something he had told Santa back at him, she bit her tongue and flailed around for something else to say instead. “Well, it. Can be,” she finished, hearing how flat it sounded. “And I don’t think work is the be-all-end-all.”

He snorted. “Come on, Jemma. When you’re up there you’re all business and nothing else.”

“We’re _there_ to work, Fitz. One ought to prioritize doing one’s job over everything else.”

“Sure. But most people find space in the margins to chat to their coworkers over lunch. Can I have the lighter?”

She passed it over, trying to come up with a retort. Nothing, however, appeared obvious before he touched the flame to the kindling, which went up in a woosh before settling down to a pleasant, crackling blaze. The torch now irrelevant, she switched it off and got down from her perch, coming down to earth in more ways than one. What retort could she offer when he had described her position perfectly? There was no point in trying to argue further. “That’s a very good fire.”

“Thanks.” Fitz looked up, the gratitude in his face showing he knew she meant it as an olive branch. “I’d say it’s nothing, but there’s a trick to it. Takes practice to be good.”

“Were you a Boy Scout?”

“No. Just picked it up.”

Clambering to his feet, he hesitated before taking a seat on the bench just a few inches from where she stood. This, though there was nothing stopping him from sitting on the bench across the way. Well, she could hardly move, could she? It would be rude now. She sat down, clasping her hands together in her lap. As if that reminded him, Fitz pulled his gloves from his pocket and put them on.

And then, silence.

There hadn’t been a moment of quiet from the time he came into the kitchen—Daisy had seen to that—and this should have felt strange. Instead, it only felt strange how comfortable it was. Perhaps the comfort came from knowing that as long as they weren’t talking they couldn’t get into an argument, but Jemma rather thought not. Silence that was merely an absence of speech didn’t have this deepness to it, like the trees and the sky and the vastness of space. It wouldn’t feel restful. It wouldn’t feel right. But this did feel all those things, as though she and Fitz were two small but infinite pieces of the cosmos, made more tremendous by their proximity to each other. She took a deep breath. The freezing air prickled with possibility.

“About last night,” said Fitz.

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow he likely couldn’t see.

He seemed to sense it anyway. “When you asked me to figure out the thing with you—I wasn’t trying to get out of it.”

“It never occurred to me that you would.”

“I know it’s my job,” he continued in a rush, almost as though she hadn’t spoken, “and we can sit down and figure it out whenever we get a chance at work. I just—you kind of got caught in the middle of my stuff.”

“I see,” she said, not seeing.

“I had been there since four a.m. dealing with a plumbing issue, and we had clocked out, and I work enough paid overtime without working extra for free. I kind of hate the job even when I’m getting paid for it.”

“You hate the job?” Tonight had been one long surprise after the other. Would she never learn to give up all her assumptions? “Then why—”

“Do you not have bills to pay, then?” Even the firelight couldn’t hide his pained expression. “When Mack recommended me I could hardly say no, could I? And I can do the job, and most of the time I can do it without an issue. Some days I want to slam my resignation on Coulson’s desk. Yesterday was just one of those days.”

“Fitz, I’m sorry.”

He ran a hand over his face. “Not your fault.”

“No, but I’m sorry anyway. I never wanted to do anything but this and I assumed everyone felt the same. I shouldn’t have.”

“I think it’s great that you love the job. No, honestly,” he said to her disbelieving scoff, “you’re ridiculously intense about it, but you can really tell how much you love it in the end result. I don’t want to do anything to keep you from succeeding. So I hope you aren’t too put out by me dragging my heels last night. That’s all I wanted to say.”

A no-thoroughfare sign if she had ever heard one, and Jemma was too English to trespass on emotionally rocky ground. Instead, she tucked away what he had told her in the secret box and tipped her head to the skies, where the stars winked back reassuringly. “Oh, don’t worry about it. We couldn’t do anything without a theme, anyway, and there’s time. We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“What should we talk about instead?”

“Whatever you like.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and clasped her arms around them. “Though I’m not sure what’s left to say.”

“You could tell me your favorite constellation. You know mine; fair is fair.”

She hesitated. Normally, she didn’t appreciate when people demanded information about her personal life, but favorite constellation hardly ranked as a state secret—not to mention, hadn’t he just offered her something infinitely more private? If he could trust her, she would trust him. “Serpus.”

“We’re neighbors, then!”

She couldn’t quite hold back a smile, though she kept her eyes trained above so he wouldn’t think it was for him. “We’re more alike than we thought, I suppose.”

“Even if you do eat more vegetables on your pizza than a granny has in her whole allotment.”

“Even if you do pour a plantation’s worth of sugar into your tea.”

“Oh, come on, now!”

“Tit for tat, Fitz.”

She glanced back at him to be sure he knew she was joking and found herself instantly breathless. His smile shone out in the dark, brighter by far than the now-roaring fire before them, as different from the half-smiles she had received at the Lodge as a bud is from a full flower. Was this what he was really like, she wondered dazedly? Had she seen the real Fitz today, after all? He met her gaze and held it, his grin subsiding until all that remained were the sparkles in his eyes. _Deep_ , she thought again. _Vast_. _Tremendous_.

“Jemma,” he said, hardly above a whisper.

“Yes?”

“I’m really glad I came today.”

She lowered her feet to the ground so she could turn, delicately but deliberately, to angle herself in his direction. “I am, too.”

“S’MORES!!!”

They both jumped, Jemma sliding as far away as the bench would let her, to face the direction of the house. Daisy, now bundled up to her chin, brandished some wire sticks; Daniel brought up the rear with a tray. And that was that, Jemma knew. Whatever else might be happening wouldn’t happen now.

At least, it wouldn’t happen tonight.

* * *

[i] This is the kind of thing that would never happen in real life but happens all the time in these movies. Why!

[ii] Hallmark loves its P&P references! See _Pride, Prejudice and Mistletoe_ and _Christmas at Pemberley Manor_. It’s because the genre of books they’re adapting never met a Mr Darcy allusion it didn’t like.

[iii] There are often food fights to end baking montages, but I couldn’t see FitzSimmons engaging in one.

[iv] In America they’re called s’mores, of course. This is a tribute to _Chesapeake Shores_ , which is not a Christmas movie but does air on Hallmark, and features a family who has s’mores at the drop of a hat.

**Author's Note:**

> I love a footnote, so here we are.


End file.
